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[Janitor101]

Episode 1 - Prologue / The Kharkandan Civil War


A week of brutal and costly fighting has bought the fledgling Kharkandan Independance Movement much needed momentum. Combined with the defection of two entire lances of Battlemechs from the Loyalist Triumvir Guard, and additional offworld mercenaries, the Loyalists have been hard pressed to stand their ground.

The newly formed Kharkandan Armed Forces, under the command of Duke Osric, have made pushes toward the capitol city of Jarrund. However Lord General Cedric Godwin’s last ditch defenses have stalled the last three assaults which have cost several thousand lives.
Osric’s response to Cedric’s counter attack is a modification of the ancient and classic Pincer Movement.
Should Osric’s daring attempt of the classic double envelopment succeed, Cedric’s troops will be pinned between the front lines of Osric’s stalled assault, and the assaulting pincer.
This would leave Jarrund City vulnerable to direct attack, and would end the rule of Leofric the Cruel.

---

Forward Operating Base Ballista, foothills of the Grand Khadaar Mountains.
Kharkandan Armed Forces, Triumvir Guard, 2nd Company, ‘Woolrich’s Huntsmen’
02:00 Hours.
-

The furious bustle of activity inside FOB Ballista is just short of deafening, even inside your private quarters as you prepare for your Company briefing.
You suit up, collect your Neurohelmet along with your personal items, good luck charms and handgun. Along the way to the briefing you bump into your fellow lancemates, as well as other members of Woolrich’s Huntsmen on their way to the briefing. Not much is said for the most part, it is very early, and the ambient sound level is quite high from the roaring of vehicle engines and shouted orders.

You and your fellows file into a cramped pre-fabricated building that was probably built back when the Star League was at the height of its power.
Major Adolphus Woolrich is already inside, standing behind a well used and throughly abused wooden podium. The Major waits patiently while everyone finds a seat, once the assembled MechWarriors are seated, Major Woolrich speaks.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Our objective today is Jarrund City and the Marble Palace.”

Woolrich is interrupted by the intake of breath, whistles or gasps. He shrugs it off and continues.

“Duke Osric has outlined the plan for the final push to Jarrund, the entirety of General Anders 2nd Devision is being committed for this push into Lord General Godwin’s underbelly.”

Major Woolrich shuffles a few papers in his stack and nods to an aid standing at the back of the room who is manning an old style projector.
The large and previously unused back wall behind Woolrich is transformed into a satellite image of the of the Grand Khadaar Mountains and the landscape surrounding it. A moment later a modified version appears with colorized markers depicting allied locations, enemy positions, planned attack routes, and at the center is a white dot with the words “Jarrund City” above it.

Woolrich takes his walking stick and taps the end of it against a green dot just at the northern end of the planned assault route, and green lettering is added, plainly stating “Deployment Zone”.

“This is our assigned zone, just beyond this point we may begin encountering Loyalist emplacements.” Woolrich shifts where the end of his walking stick touches the wall slightly to the west of the deployment zone and a number of red question marks appear.
“We don’t know the exact composition or location of enemy troops because no reconnaissance has been done. This is to completely ensure the completeness of the surprise attack.” Woolrich states, some of the assembled MechWarriors shoot each other dubious glances.

Woolrich continues. “Our Company’s objective is to penetrate the northern end of the Loyalist’s defensive line and directly assault Jarrund City. We have been given a privilege in this assignment, and I expect each and every one of you to perform your duties to the best of your abilities. Dismissed, reassemble at your Battlemechs and prepare to move out.” Woolrich finishes with a semi dramatic flair, which is lost, or ignored by the MechWarriors as they head for their 'Mechs.

---

Same rules are as stated on the sign up are in effect. In addition to:
No Godmode. (Taking on hordes without a scratch, obvious, but worth stating anyways)
Don’t control other player’s characters without expressed written permission.
Don’t invent enemies to fight, I’ll give you pretty detailed information on what you’re fighting.
You still must have fun.

-
Player List (Sign ups are still open, however the chance to vote for a faction to support has passed)
Janitor101 - Antonio Vega*: Light, Wolfhound WLF-HVK (Lance Commander)
cmopatrick - Sean Flynn*: Light, Mongoose MON-67 *MECH DESTROYED, SUCCESSFUL EJECTION*
dal10 - Andrei Averin*: Assault, Charger CGR-1A1
Sparks Murphy - Nathan Chippilo*: Medium, Dervish DV-6M
Spokes - Li-Hua Taishu*: Medium, Scorpion SCP-1N
Thom Frankfurt - William 'Billy' Ribbions*: Medium, Wolverine WVR-BB
guardian wolf - William Wolford*: Medium, Shadow Hawk SHD-2K *MECH DESTROYED, KIA*
Alan Wagner - Alan Wagner*: Medium, Centurion CN9-A2 *ENGINE FAILURE, LEFT WITH TECH CREWS*
The Shepherd - James Campbell*: Light, Raven RVN-3L
-

NOTE: Due to my catching the cold/flu/whatever, this is going to start off a little slow, please bear with me. My brain feels like it got transplanted into a shakeweight.

You are free to explore, or wander inside FOB Ballista, or you can go straight to your Mechs, this is some open time for some discussion, or for you all to have characters talk about how quickly the campaign has progressed. (Due to the compact settled area on Kharkand, everything is very close together. You are allowed leeway in inventing skirmishes, towns and battles if you so choose, the no godmode rule applies though.)

Edited by Janitor101, 06 October 2014 - 03:19 PM.

[cmopatrick]

The room is small and the smells are of pilots with less than enough washing. I did use deodorant myself; well, at least some time recently. Showers have been a bit harder to come up with, but that doesn't change the fact that lacking a head-cold is a distinct disadvantage. Still, I have to admit, the smells take a rather back seat to the noise; surrounding me are a cacophony of communications and attempts at such, mixed with the sense that there are no real walls between us and the techs with their air wrenches, ICE generators, and shouting to be heard.

I must be getting old, I could swear I just heard that Major say, “We don't know where they are because it's not important to check. Checking would get in the way of our glorious plans.” Ok, I paraphrase, but even a four year old would at least hijack a weather sat and look for any heat concentrations along our “surprise attack” route.

Yeah, I know, there is probably some prepubescent general from some royal house out there coming up with this stuff. The only thing that gives me hope is the likelihood that the other side has the same types in command; I mean they all went to school together, right?

The silly meeting ends and we all stand to head to our war machines. I wish we had just one Boomerang or even a simple UAV.
“Hey TOG, you awake? Didn't hear you bemoaning your fate at all in the meeting.”
I don't know the speaker's name and I could rather care less as long as he remembers who to point his big stompy at. I'll remember to call him an id-iot when we get back... if he gets back.

That map Major Woolrich pulled up, with all it's pretty colors reminds me of something... or several somethings. “Smells like Plan 17 all over,” I comment to no one in particular, and I'm completely unsurprised when no one listens. “Why even bother to hire a deep driver when your idea of a reccy is to play Steiner and 'Charge!' at them?”
“You have a problem, pilot?”
I don't know who the officer is, but he has enough pretty marks on his sleeve that he could be trouble and I rather not get in trouble before I can open fire on somebody. On the other hand, “Permission to speak freely, Sir?”
“No.”
“Then I don't have a problem, Sir.”
“Then keep your mouth shut until you are in your seat merc,” he nearly spits this last word like it was a mouthful of day-old phlegm, “or you don't get paid. Understand?”

He may be an arrogant little weasel with the intelligence of road-kill, but at least now he is speaking my language. “Understood, sir.” I may not care what happens to him or this silly civil war, but making the c-bills to keep things running is about top of my list of must do activities... right behind keeping my rump out of a pine box.
He turns away and I continue towards the bay and 'Goose. Smiling to myself I mutter, “'bout time ta set da 'Goose loose!”

Edited by cmopatrick, 26 February 2013 - 08:06 PM.

[cmopatrick]

In front of me is a slow walking kid. Ok, a BIG slow walking kid. I'm about to go around him when I get one of those deja vu moments.

Little Timmy was one of these giants, probably close enough to two meters to make any lack irrelevant and clearly twice my weight without enough fat to fry an egg. Little Timmy walked a fancy 4P Swayback and was pretty nasty in it. Never really figured he would be the type to want a garrison stint, but after running together in a little two-lancer that stuck it's nose into someone else's war, and got all but wiped for the effort, I think we both saw this quiet planet with it's “stable” government as a good chance to rest and recuperate.
Yeah, right. We weren't planetside for two weeks before that old Archduke took his dirt nap and all hell broke loose. They didn't mess with the barracks, but it stopped being fun and then it stopped being safe to go down into town.
Finally, the Triumvir Guard local we were attached to was ordered to a dusty place called Jarrund, some kind of unrest was all we were told. For once, I got lucky: my stock right foot actuator had blown a line on our last patrol, gushing fluid until I was limping on seized metal. The cylinder was useless and I had it out on the bay floor when the walk order came down.
Little Timmy had laughed, “Buy something newer than you are, TOG. You spend as much doing the five and ten route as if you just bought a real 'Mech.”
“The new stuff is just for wimps. Why this here 'Goose in it's day was a command 'Mech with all kinds of fancy stuff on it. It even has them old SDLF markings in it.”
“Yeah, and then the fancy stuff broke down, got pulled off, normal stuff got crammed in, and it started to look like something a troll might walk out of a cave with. No, wait, are you a troll?” He found his joke funny and chuckled a bit.
“Laugh all you want, big guy. Just you wait, this little 'Goose will be around long after that newfangled Sway isn't even good for salvage.”
He had slapped me on the back, one of his good natured attempts at being friendly that came across with the gentleness of an Atlas' melee strike.

Little Timmy had been a good kid. He did the right thing, but didn't walk back because of it. If 'Goose has been ready, we both well might have gotten done to. The unit was ordered to fire on protesters. Civilians. Unarmed ones. The kind of crowd that even had teens in it. Maybe even little kids.
When Little Timmy said “no” their CO laid an alpha into his back armor, ripping him open, then repeated the shot and crushed the fusion containment shell before the reactor could scram. Like a live grenade in your hand, it destroyed the 4P. Little Timmy probably never felt more than a moment of surprise and betrayal. My words came true, there wasn't enough left of the Swayback to be salvage. I wish I had been wrong, but I wasn't.

That Guard unit went on to murder more than three thousand at Jarrund.

The new Archduke, Leofric, shut down the spaceport that day: no dropships in or out without his personal approval. I couldn't leave, but when this Osric character stood up and said something like “oh hell no!” I figured that was the right side to be on. Well, the pay isn't that good yet, but we have been promised bonuses if we win and I could kinda use one about now.

The towering one in front of me turns towards the left at the 'Mech bay and I turn right. My battered little 'Goose sits in a neglected corner. She may be lighter than all the rest, but she sure is a welcome sight.

(edit: for some spelling and autocorrect errors)

Edited by cmopatrick, 27 February 2013 - 05:59 AM.

[dal10]

Fwap
Fwap
Fwap
(sound effects are extremely neccessary)
After the briefing (i really don't feel like commenting on it, as Andrei would be unlikely to comment on it, considering he is a bit of the idealistic type on this side.) Andrei started to spar with an infantryman in a boxing.match. Andrei was the kind of guy who needed to work out in order to relax. This was probably due to the years of military training he had prior to his father's death. Something about the back and forth exchange of blows allowed him to center his mind and calm down.

jab, cross, upppercut. opponent drops his arm, block the hit, it was a feint, hit was taken to the stomach, he tries another hit from the left, block, right hand jab.

Andrei's opponent is rather good, able to both take a punch and dish one out. But despite the hum and drum of the base, the sweat of the gym, and the rhythm of the fight, Andrei was not truly there. He was stuck in the past, back during the massacre of civilians by the Triumvir Guards. Where the mechs, vehicles, and infantry of the guards opened fire with heavy weapons on the crowd of civilians. He remembered the guard Swayback that was destroyed for refusing to fire, he remembered the abandon of the crowd trying to escape the hell-storm of lasers, particle cannons, missiles and cannons. He remembers the lives that were ended that day. The old man holding what looked like a shirt from his daughter with tears in his eyes, the mother shielding her son from the weapons, the little boy crying over his fathers smoking body. The two lovers dead in each other's arm. Every face that he ended, Andrei remembered. They were etched into his mind and his soul. Right now every single one of those faces were screaming for one thing. Vengeance. They wanted their slayers to suffer the same fear they did as they watched the death that was about to roll over them. The same fear Andrei lives through every night.

SMACK

Andre's opponent's next jab hit Andrei square in the jaw, knocking him out of his stupor.

"you won't be able to stand against me if you aren't paying attention Corporal Averin."

His opponent's guard dropped as he said this. Then, like a switch was flipped, Andrei went on the offensive, launching an explosive (not literally) punch that went deep into the infantryman's gut. Andrei continued his reckless assault with a series of lightning punches to the same spot his first punch had softened up. He followed up with a massive uppercut that lifted the larger guy off the ground. After the guy had landed, but before he had regained his balance, Andrei hit him with a shot to the face that contained all his rage, all his sorrow, and every ounce of pain and regret he could muster. His opponent's back hit the ropes and kept going, with the Infantryman flipping over the ropes to land immobile on the ground.

"well i don't think he is getting up anytime soon..." proclaimed the referee, the infantryman's sergeant. " the winner is corporal Averin." with this he held Andrei's arm up high. But Andrei had already sunk back into his nightmares. Still breathing hard, he headed off to the showers.

[cmopatrick]

“TOG!”
“TOG.”
“TOG.”

Those three techs do that every time I walk by. It's been that way since I joined their little rebellion and first walked into wherever their forward base 'Mech bay was at the time. I imagine their nearly grunting pronunciation would fit the average caveman; then again, perhaps that is insulting to cavemen.
At first, I think they just meant it as harassment, but I keep surviving the missions and they almost seem to offer the recognition of my presence with a grudging respect. I wouldn't trust them with my c-bill account, but I don't think they will cut my wiring either. Well, hope not.

Dingo is leaning on the counter with his rear section parked squarely in a chair on the inside of the parts window. I have no idea why they call the man “Dingo” but have never seen reason to invite problems by asking him. Dingo is the closest this FOB comes to a quartermaster, I try to be nice to him since he can occasionally get me what I want and usually get me what I need.
“Dingo.”
“TOG.”
“Any word on the cooling jacket for my small?”
“When are you going to stop trying to go cheap and just pop for a new one? I even have two salvage back here. I'm seriously disinclined to assist your quest to be Duke Osric's cheapest skinflint in a 'bot”... you understand?”
I could have about a dozen smart acre answers out in the time it takes to type this, but somehow manage to stifle the impulse. “How much?”
“You gonna spring for a whole one?”
“No, how much to improve your attitude?”
He smiles, “you want it today or next week?”
“Will it make a difference?”
“Only if you think the war will be over.”
I think about our action today. What do I really think our odds are of success? Walking blindly towards ill defined targets...
“And if not,” I query.
“It costs more the further away from command we are.”
“Ok, if I want it today?”
“Including my carrying charges, I can give you a used one for 7500 c-bills.”
Thief. Pirate. Mugger. No respect at all. “Fine, I'll take it. Have it ready when I get back.”
“No, you'll stick it in a storage bin or you don't get today's price.”
“The only storage I have is in my...” I'm about to say “'Mech” but I see him grin wickedly and have to imagine that is where he wants it.
“I need it over there now, we walk in a few.”
“Your wish is my command.” Not likely and we both know it. He snaps his fingers and a cute orderly rushes up. I need to not look at her, she is probably young enough to be my grand daughter... but she is HOT and I'm not dead.
(sigh.)
I turn back into the bay and watch the activity for just a moment. The CYT (that's “cute young thing”) comes up behind, pushing a come-along with desired box on it and breathlessly asks, “Where?”
“Right side of the 'Goose,” I say while pointing.
She looks a bit unsure, “with the regimental colors, or that tiny thing in black and green?”
I resist the temptation to comment about size, in part because I’m sure she could come up with at least a dozen whithering replies designed to completely expose my lack of value along those lines. “The Black one is the Mongoose; that's where it goes, Ma'am.”
She might have said “thanks” or something similar, but she doesn't; instead, off she goes with my box.

Edited by cmopatrick, 27 February 2013 - 10:24 PM.

[cmopatrick]

I pay Dingo and figure I need to get to the 'Goose. After turning out into the noisy bay I hear him snort at me, “good luck” with all the heartfelt enthusiasm of a child about to get a root canal.

Ten paces or so later, the CYT passes and I have to admit that after I had smiled disinterestedly I do turn to appreciate the view.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a woman officer nearly double over with a fit of laughter. Looking her way, I realize I am the source of the hilarity. She shakes her head, all the while with that look on her face. “Do you know how stupid you look? She walks by and your head snaps around like you are a fish on a hook.”
From her uniform, I judge she is armor of some sort; I know there are some tread heads here and she fits the stereotype in both appearance and demeanor.
However, I don't think I have time to get into a philosophical discussion with her about value of remembering what you had even if you might not have had a chance to check on it for a while. “Yup, you're right. I'm just old and stupid,” I say while turning towards my waiting 'Mech.
“Well that's refreshing. Don't give up so quick, merc. She might not know what to do with a man, but that doesn't mean everyone is that way.”
If I wanted to harness something to a plow, this officer might fit the bill... however I think she is trying to expand her options for the evening and presuming we are going to be back here tonight, I think I rather spend it sweltering alone on a bug infested cot in the refugee camp. Ok, I wouldn't do that, better to be in the chair with 'Goose playing tunes suited to whatever mood, but I’m not telling her any of that.
“No offense, Ma'am, but I'm preoccupied with getting my 'Mech ready to walk. Please excuse me.”
She glares like she isn't sure if she hasn't been dissed, and I have to wonder how desperate she must be to have considered me. I mean I wasn't hit by the ugly stick, but at my most appealing I was never near Adonis and my face has a lot more miles on it since.
She tosses a parting shot, “yeah, you'd probably rather pay to play anyway.”
Nope, haven't done that in more years than she has probably been alive; but again, I rather let these locals keep to themselves and skip any retort.

The three stooges are working the rig next to mine.
“TOG!”
“TOG.”
“TOG!”
They grunt it in sequence again. Ok, it does get annoying, but I so want to get out an kill something... or at least pi-ss it off enough that a lancemate can kill it more easily... that I let it slide with a “Dudes.”
They snicker, I bet “dude” is back out of fashion. Oh, well; they don't call me “the old guy” for nothing.

I slice the box open and recognize that Dingo has simply stripped the cooling jacket off of one of his salvaged SLs and boxed it... just for me. Carrying charges my ear. And since it was boxed, he knew I was going to wind up buying it. Brat. Used to be that the customer was important and respect earned was rewarded with appropriate treatment. Or something like that.
Hmmm. Guess I better get this thing up into the storage box or I'll return to find it has been repackaged and returned to parts... and I'll wind up 7500 short. Joy.
The tarps and camo netting that serve as the makeshift bay roof rustle in a brief puff of wind, then return to slackness. The air smells odd, like detonated gel mixed with jungle rot and a porcine methane plant... oh, and just a hint of smoke.

The food cart comes around and all the techs and some of the combat types tromp over for their breakfasts. The couple that run it are locals, I bet they fed the previous army with just as much gusto. But the food is pretty good and an easy match for what the regiment offers us lowlife merc types, not to mention it is at least a fortune cheaper than the highfalutin prices they gouge us with.
Rather than wait in line, I move the contraption my SL needs up the makeshift gangplank they have relegated me. I finish hoisting it into the cockpit in time and hurry down to find that two, a tech and what looks like a tank jock are all that's left in front of me.
Tanker is all excited, “I bet we are into the Palace by sunset. The general has this all figured out, they won't even guess we are coming until it's too late.”
The woman seems interested, “ya'll gonna make your push, son?”
He pays for the pastries and some kind of meat and smiles like she has offered a pile of gold. “Oh, yeah! We are gonna roll right in there behind them. This isn't a defensive position, we are gonna take it to them in a grand surprise and wipe them clean.”
The male looks up at him, “ah, well... will you be back for lunch, or is this our last chance to serve you?”
Meanwhile the woman looks my way and queries, “and what are you having, dear?”
I look at their little portable menu board and decide something I can eat in the cockpit might be nice.
The armor jock answers his question, “I hope you gave me your best now, we'll be in town in a few hours.”
“May I have a couple of those flat breads with the cheese in the middle?”
With a broad smile, the proprietor answers the tanker, “may your success be fitting with your service.” Seems like an odd way to put it, but the metal-head bounces away, assured that all will soon be right with the world.
“I have a special on those, down to my last five, I'll give them all to you for 17c.”
That is a good deal, but what would I do with the extra three? “Nah, I really don't need that many, two is fine.”
“Five for 12c.”
These folks like to dic-ker. I hesitate and she pulls out the bag with the five of them. Hmmmm, they sure don't look like day-old; why would she want to part with them before she gets to the other side of the bay?
“I really only want the two for 8c.”
“But this is an excellent deal.”
“Are you giving away the store again?” the man asks with what looks like mock outrage.
“This pilot has been so nice to us, let's do something nice for him.”
When have I done anything nice to or for them?
“Five for 10c. My final offer,” she states like I have been twisting her arm instead of not really caring.
I guess I can have them for leftovers. I may be cheap, but I’m not immune to a good deal. “Five for 10c? Done.”
I pay him and he is already closing the cart up as she hands me the bag. They sure seem like they're in a hurry. Once more, I get the impression that something is a little off, but then again, maybe they are afraid we'll have the enemy tossing rounds this direction. Guess when I think of it that way it makes pretty good sense to hurry away, even if it isn't exactly directly away from the front lines.

(edit: spelling and word order change)

Edited by cmopatrick, 28 February 2013 - 11:07 PM.

[Sparks Murphey]

Forward Operating Base Ballista, foothills of the Grand Khadaar Mountains.
Kharkandan Armed Forces, Triumvir Guard, 2nd Company, ‘Woolrich’s Huntsmen’
02:05 Hours.

Nathan left the briefing room with his heart fluttering. This was it. Up until now, the closest he’d seen to combat was a skirmish 3 days ago when he’d added to an LRM barrage on some retreating vehicles. This would be real combat. Real fighting.

The thought occurred that he could die.

While others attended to their ‘Mechs or blew off a little pre-combat steam, Nathan returned to the now-empty barracks. His fingers pressed the buttons automatically. After a long moment, Julia answered.

“Hello?” she mumbled.

“Hey, honey, it’s me.”

“Nathan. What’s up?” She still sounded tired (it was the middle of the night, he reflected), but he could also hear her warm smile in her voice.

“Nothing. I just wanted to check on you.”

“I‘m fine. Sleepy, though. Still wish you were lying here next to me.”

“Me too.”

The sounds of a brawl from the neighbouring gym briefly overrode the noise of the maintenance bay.

“Is that fighting?” Julia asked, sounding suddenly more awake.

“Nah, just some boxing between a couple of the troopers,” Nathan replied, “Tell me about the children. How are they?”

“Well, if you’re not home soon, you might be unemployed. Lucas is taking over the workshop with you gone. Kennedy thinks he’ll be ready to start an apprenticeship in a year.”

Nathan smiled. “Told you he was a good kid.”

“He’s got brains for more. He should be a mathematician,” she grumbled, “Not that there’s anything wrong with him being a smart, handsome furniture maker. I hear they’re quite a catch.”

Despite not having a video connection, Nathan knew she’d be sticking her tongue out at him, and couldn’t resist doing it back.

“Maggie’s doing well,” Julia continued, “She’s still disappointed she won’t be at college next year, but she’s adjusting. She’s been volunteering at the library, I think just to get closer to the books. Oh, and there’s Paul. Not sure if they’re together or just friends. Not sure if she knows yet.

“Ethel’s...well, Ethel’s being Ethel. Her hair’s blue now, and she’s decided her true calling is as a poet. Mr Allen called me the other day, apparently she released all the lizards from the terrarium, declaring their independence from the tyranny of mankind.”

“And what about you? Tell me about you,” Nathan asked.

“I’m...yeah, I’m fine,” she said with a sigh, “Missing my man. You’re coming home soon, right?”

“Yeah, Julia, soon. Very soon, with any luck.”

She was silent for a while, and he knew she’d put it together. This was a major battle that could finish the war. One way or another.

“Be careful out there, Nathan. Come home. Let someone else be the hero. Just come back to me.”

“I will,” he said, “I love you, Julia.”

“I love you too, Nathan.”

Nathan disconnected the call. He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, took a deep breath, and walked to the ‘Mech bay.

[cmopatrick]

I've never been fond of the stock ai or her voice. Well, that's not exactly true, when I was younger, I used to dream I'd meet the woman behind that sometimes sultry voice and... well... no need to go there, is there? Besides, Betty has probably been dead for a few hundred years; not exactly the kind of reality than makes for erotic inspiration, now is it?
Anyway, as my 'Mech sequence starts up, I get to enjoy the replacement ai I picked up a few years back while on my last trip to Solaris VII. They have a new guy doing the broadcast calls for the circuit, a middle-aged former stadium jock named Duncan Fisher. Talk about irreverent and funny: even when I had just ejected and could only hear him over the stadium speakers, he still made me laugh... even at myself.
“About time you got your fat butt into the chair, Sean.”
“Yeah, bite m e, Duncan.”
“Not interested, Sean. But you better get your dancing skills on and start you weapons up or you'll have the bad guys biting you.”
“Funny. Haha.”
“You know, I remember when I was in a 'Mech...”
“Thanks, start the checklist.”
“But I wasn't finished spouting off...”
“Start the checklist.”
“Yeah, Ok.”
My console comes to life and I prepare for the day ahead by munching on a bread. Mmmm, they sure are good. Ok, there are a few crumbs scattering here and there, but I'm not exactly expecting company, now am I?
Between bites, I hook up my antique cooling suit and lock my harness down. After the last bite, I settle my neurohelm, and mentally think back over all the times I have done this.

In the bay beyond me, I see so many folks I know hardly, if at all. Techs and pilots, tread heads and support, even unit command officers and their attendants... they all interact so well. Heck, I bet a lot of the local pilots even have family. I have to wonder, how must they feel right now? Have any of them spoken with their loved ones... and how could a call like that go?
Loved ones. I knew what that meant once... or I think I did. There was a girl in the briefing tonight who reminded me of Mei-Li; strong and lanky with penetrating eyes and long dark hair. If the hair styles weren't so different and forty years didn't separate them, I might have thought them sisters. Nah, probably just projecting on the poor girl; hope she comes to a better end.
Unexpectedly, I feel old; like maybe I've outlived my time. I have noticed lately that there aren't many old farts in 'Mechs... it is a youngster's life. Something about our retirement plan usually involving violent death might contribute to the shortage, but maybe the loss of any lasting attachments contributes, too. Maybe the smart ones take the money and run to where they can call home.
I am alone; the sense hits me like a slow tsunami. It isn't a pain, just a numbness that floods me with the awareness that if I die in combat today, no one will miss me, no one will care.

Ok, enough of that. I slip the visor down and start a combat sim to take my mind off the situation until we are ready to walk. Better to fight imaginary opponents than let depressing thoughts have a chance at my mind. Much, much better.

(edit: deleted a word that i missed on edit before posting; my bad)

Edited by cmopatrick, 04 March 2013 - 07:44 AM.

[Janitor101]

Forward Operating Base Ballista.
02:30 Hours.
--

Antonio hid his dismay and confusion as he exited the briefing 'hut', he walked slowly toward the mechbay, thinking. He'd never heard of a plan more bold, daring or stupid as not performing recon. For all he knew, the entire assault could be walking straight into a massive kill box.

Antonio shrugged to himself, no matter, he'd been paid to do a job, and he damn well meant to do it. Though he was pretty sure that when his contract expired in the next two weeks, he wasn't about to renew it, Antonio had been on Kharkand for fifteen years, it was time to move on with life.
Antonio entered the mechbay, it was a pretty standard affair, concrete construction capable of servicing and storing an entire company of mechs, even though it'd probably never contained a full company.
It was close to capacity between the two active lances of Woolrich's Huntsmen, though they'd had to rebuild both lances after the last attempted assault.

The rest of the mechbay contained what had been salvaged from the Huntsmen's casualties and the killed Loyalist Triumvir Guard battlemechs, Antonio could see the shredded mech carcasses of former friends, people he'd known for years.
At the back of the salvaged debris was Woolrich's mech, a Cataphract CTF-1X, it'd been damaged in the last major battle, Antonio doubted the severity of the damage that had been reported by Woolrich, the Major hadn't taken enough fire to warrant his ejection.
Antonio suspected that Woolrich had been aware that a push was going to be made soon, and had bailed out of his lightly damaged mech to avoid having to lead from the front in another major assault.

Antonio sighed deeply, he actually missed Major Gerber, the former LCAF soldier had possessed an angry bluster that belied his true nature, it had taken Antonio a good four years to get through Gerber's loud perpetually angry exterior. The Major truly had cared for the soldiers under his command, as well as the mercenaries hired by the Triumvirate.

Unfortunately for Gerber, he had been at the Kharkand Technical Academy, securing what valuable materiel he could for the KAF when the Loyalist Triumvir Guard unleashed an artillery barrage the likes of which Antonio couldn't have dreamed of before.
Gerber and his entire command lance was KIA before they knew what had hit them, and the Technical Academy, its invaluable libraries and manufacturing center burned for a week. The smoke had blotted out the sun.

Woolrich had been the replacement, Antonio didn't like him even an eightieth as much as he'd liked Gerber.

Antonio climbed up the stairs and into the catwalks that surrounded his Wolfhound, the crimson and amber mech sported a handful of minor hits that marred the paintjob, but that didn't bother him, in fact Antonio thought it made the little battlemech more intimidating.
Moments later, Antonio was settled into the pilot seat, he pulled his neurohelmet snug and initiated power up.
The Wolfhound was quickly roused from its mechanical slumber, Antonio did his pre-combat readiness check, finding everything to his satisfaction. He waited until a tech down on the ground waved Antonio out of his bay, he followed the green light waving tech until he was clear of the mechbay and standing next to the main door.

Antonio punched the keys that brought up his communication system, after Lieutenant Rivero had been killed last week in the same battle Woolrich had cowardly ejected in and been injured, Antonio had been given temporary command of the surviving Huntsmen.
"Huntsmen, this is Havok, sound off and prepare to move out." Antonio stated into his microphone.

Edited by Janitor101, 04 March 2013 - 12:50 AM.

[cmopatrick]

I've just danced past my first real challenge in a simulated version of Jarrund when the command channel overrides the sim and I'm back in my cockpit.
“Huntsmen, this is Havok, sound off and prepare to move out.”
Huntsmen? Oh, yeah, that's us. I flip the switch that links my voice key to our command sequence, followed closely by the one that stands the 'Goose.
She rises and I can finally feel her elegance and power waiting for my guidance.
I key up, “TOG ready and standing. Weapons on safe. Line Position?”

[dal10]

Fresh from the showers, feeling cleaner in body than mind, Andrei took the increase of pace around the base (lulz it rhymes) as a sign that it was nearly time for the assault. Switching into his speedo (yes, my character wears a banana hammock while piloting mechs) and grabbing his cooling vest out of his locker, he quickly jogged to the mechbay. As it was common to see even female mechwarriors wandering mostly naked around a mechbay, his choice attire was mostly ignored. (you guys can notice it if you feel like it, i don't particularly mind either way)

Andrei ran up to his mech, a CGR-1A1 Charger. Standing on the rope ladder, he let the winch hoist him up to the cockpit, twelve and a half meters off the ground (guesstimate, as the only mech height i know of is the atlas at 14 meters). He then settled into the cockpit, put the nuerohelmet on his shoulders, tested that it was fitted properly. Going through the rest of the start up routine, he placed the medical patches on his chest underneath his vest, attacked the two feedback cords to his neurohelmet, and plugged in his vest to the coolant system. he then activated the startup routine.

Andrei, like a lot of pilots who owned their mechs, did not use the default B****ing Betty start up routine (source: the various battletech books). Instead the voice of a drill instructor yelled " Who dares start up this valuable piece of military machinery." (may come up later, maybe not. also for the voice think major payne.)

"One who needs its strength."

"Ok then mister Averin, what is the purpose of this machine?"

"to protect those who can not protect themselves."

Control is yours flashed across the hud. The start up list flashed as the various elements of his hud appeared, first the minimap at the bottom center of the screen with the speedometer to the left and the heat gauge to the right. Then the HTAL schematics (i like MWO's hud, but seriously, i miss my armor bars) popped up on the bottom left followed by his weapons coming online in the bottom right. lastly the 360 vision bar over the compass appears while the crosshairs shows up in the middle of the screen.

Checking his weapons more closely, Andrei observes that all 5 of his small lasers are graded as operational. not that the small lasers are my main weapons anyway... he grimly thinks as he flexes the charger's hand.

"Huntsmen, this is Havok, sound off and prepare to move out" resounded over the airwaves.

"The huntsmen would be the unit me and the rest of the Loyalist Defectees were thrown into, i think..." Andrei quietly murmurs to himself.

"TOG ready and standing, Weapons on safe. Line position?" comes from the mongoose.

"Mist here Lance Leader, all systems reading as operational. Ready to move out at any time." Andrei sounds off in a cold voice.

[Spokes]

Forward Operating Base Ballista, foothills of the Grand Khadaar Mountains
02:10 Hours


Li-Hua took a zig zag route through the mounting chaos in the repair area, balancing a ruck sack and a binder of briefing materials.

So much can change in 24 hours.

She'd rode in on an old, patch job of a dropship loaded with all manner of trade goods and the traders to go with them. The view on the way in had been incredible. . .blue ocean, white clouds, green landmass. But shortly after strapping into one of the acceleration couches in the passenger bay the captain had come on the intercomm-- they had been rerouted to a landing field outside the capital, and from there everything had gone wrong.

Her paperwork listed her current employer as one Archduke Maerec Godwin, and as he was apparently now dead the guardsmen that met the dropship hadn't known what to do with her. After much arguing, three different interrogations, a brief, guided tour of the stockade, one shouting match, two bribes and being set to work stripping the cooling jacket off a 'Mech laser Li-Hua had finally managed to corner someone with some semblance of authority. Her contract was now a patchwork of handwritten addendums and codicils that, under the right light and the influence of alcohol might be considered legal. It would have to do.

A sudden gust of wind ripping through an overhead tarp brings Li to a dead halt in the middle of repair floor, eyes riveted on the offending swath of plastic, heart rate up through the roof. It's okay, that's normal, just breathe. The blast of a horn and a shouting tech brings Li back to reality just in time to side step a loaded fork lift. She waves an apology and resumes walking, finally moving out of the flow of traffic towards the mass of metal squatting in the back of the bay.

The Scorpion looks out of place next to the other mechs. Balanced on four splayed legs, its hull sitting less than three meters off the deck, the machine looks like it belongs over in the other bay with the combat crawlers and support vehicles. The dark gray primer does a reasonable job of hiding the rust and pitting on the armor. The only marking is a small outline of the mech, silhouetted against a solid white sunburst just rising over a curved, white horizon. Someone has painted the word "Virgil" on the sunburst in delicate, black lettering.

After doing a brief walk around, Li starts up the chain ladder on the 'Mech's left side. The ladder sags in the high gravity and the ruck sack feels like it has a bowling ball in it. The altitude doesn't help. Easing her legs over the pressure collar, Li drops down into the cockpit. She takes a small key from around her neck and places it in a control port on the console. The interior lighting flickers to life and the small compartment fills with a low hum as the 'Mech's APUs kick on.

Li sets the ruck sack on the pilot seat, the contents of which represent the last few items left for sale at the field base's closet of a commissary. Two candy bars (quickly eaten), some mints, five packs of gum, a container of instant noodles and an aluminum can of. . .something. Li pulls the noodles out of the bag and stows the rest. A few quick, practiced motions and a kettle of water starts heating on a small hotplate.

Li reaches over and hits a switch on the console.

"Virgil, set VOXCON toggle on."

VERIFIED. STANDING BY. The voice is male with a stilted, heavily electronic cadence.

The command couch is turned to face aft, towards the hatch and away from the primary controls. Li plops down into the seat and opens the briefing materials, flipping through the nonsense summary looking for. . .there.

"Open IFF root module."

OPENED.

"Set Home IFF alpha numeric Papa Kilo Eight Two Six Oscar Niner."

HOME IFF CODE SET

"Callback and verify home IFF"

The computer reads the code back in its slow, deliberate voice. Satisfied, Li moves to the next page and repeats the process for each of the units listed in the briefing packet.

"Close IFF root module. Open comm channel crypto."

CLOSED. OPENED.

"Load Crypto codes at file location zero zero eight two three and sync with local comm channels"

VERIFIED.

"Run diagnosics on loaded crypto files" Because we will not be doing that again. . .

WORKING.

Li pours the water into the noodle cup, rips open the attached wrapper, frowns. Chopsticks. A brief search of the compartment turns up a plastic fork. The noodles are not completely horrible. Li starts eating.

PROCESS COMPLETE. NO ERRORS.

"Load reactor warm up and systems check program. Set VOXCON toggle off."

VERIFIED.

Li bolts down the rest of the noodles as the computer steps through the start up sequence. Displays begin to flicker on in the cockpit. Coat off and stowed, coolant vest on and connected. Li flips through the rest of the paperwork and is disappointed. Not even a topo map. Unbelievable. . .

The distinct sounds of a mech moving nearby settle the matter. Li swivels the command chair around in time to see a Wolfhound moving towards the bay exit. Locking the chair in place, Li settles the neurohelm on her head, straping it down and taking care to line up the cold metal electrodes with the shaved bits of scalp. She can feel vibrations from the Scorpion's internal systems now through the pedals at her feet.

"Virgil, status?"

PROCESS COMPLETE. REACTOR WARM UP COMPLETE. GYRO AT ONE FIVE ZERO RPM AND RISING.

"Virgil, seal the hatch and run final systems check"

VERIFIED.

There is a rasp of metal and hiss of air as the hatch clams shut and dogs itself. Li's ears pop painfully. The electrodes in the helm go from cold to warm and back again in a familar pattern.

HATCH SEALED. PRESSURE SET AND HOLDING AT ONE POINT ZERO FIVE LOCAL ATMOSPHERES.

NEURAL PATTERN LOGGED AND SYNCED. STANDING BY FOR VOX PATTERN.

"Vuolsi così colà dove si puote"

VERIFIED. PROCESS COMPLETE. REACTOR ONLINE. SENSORS ONLINE. WEAPONS. . .

ERROR. HARDWARE FAULT DETEC. . .

"Override"

VERIFIED. ALL SYSTEMS NOMINAL.

Suddenly there is a voice in the helmet's earpiece, "Huntsmen, this is Havok, sound off and prepare to move out." It was time to go.

"Copy Havok, Spokes has a green board and is standing by."

Li raises her right knee into the bumper pedal under the console and the Scorpion obliges, the command chair rocking gently as the 'Mech raises itself to operating height.

((Edit, spelling))

Edited by Spokes, 04 March 2013 - 04:47 PM.

[Sparks Murphey]

Forward Operating Base Ballista, foothills of the Grand Khadaar Mountains
02:30 Hours

The Dervish appeared to stand proudly to attention in its bay. Nathan wasn’t sure whether it was the near immaculate royal blue paint with its overlay of gold embossed lions, the BattleMech’s natural head-back, chest-out posture, or simply his own knowledge of its noble past. He ran his fingers across the armour of the giant machine as he climbed the gantry to the hatch in the back of its head.

“Identifizieren!” came the terse voice of the two centuries old Lyran AI. Though he’d managed to get the text displays to be readable, Nathan still hadn’t had time to change the language for the spoken components. He could neither speak nor understand German, whatever dialect this was, but most of the words seemed straightforward enough.

Nathan pulled the neurohelmet off its cradle and plugged it in. “Der blaue Ritter, hier töten Bösen,” he said, hoping he didn’t mangle the phrase too badly. He grabbed the manual from the forward stowage compartment and began flicking through the startup routine.

“Bestätigt. Willkommen an Bord,” the AI announced, sounding a little grudging. She was closely followed by radio chatter as the comms system sprung to life.

“...vok, sound off and prepare to move out.”

Wait, was that Havok? Was that to him? S***, where was the reactor magnetic field gauge?

“TOG ready and standing. Weapons on safe. Line Position?”

“Reactor aktiv,” chimed in the AI.

TOG? He was the Mongoose pilot, wasn’t he? Or was he the old tech?

“Mist here Lance Leader, all systems reading as operational. Ready to move out at any time.”

No, Mist was definitely in the lance. Nathan muttered another curse as he switched the power on to the main sensor arrays and opened their protective shields.

“Sensoren aktiv.”

“Copy Havok, Spokes has a green board and is standing by.”

Wait, Spokes? Who was she? Vague references to a Scorpion pilot during the briefing came back to him as he engaged the Dervish’s missile loading mechanisms.

“Waffen aktiv. Alle Systeme nominal,” the AI announced proudly.

“Copy, Havok,” Nathan echoed, “Fishy here, good to go.”

He glanced up at the overhead sensor display, noting that Havok had already made his way to the door. On the deck in front of the Dervish, a tech stood waiting impatiently, green wands indicating Nathan should hurry up and get moving. He did so.

[cmopatrick]

Across from me a quad rises up, Scorpion by the look of it. Hmmm, lots of primer on her, but a careful look makes it obvious that with so many little patches done to disguise major work on her armor, that 'Mech has seen a lot of combat. It will be good to see how an experienced pilot runs her.
A tech waves me out and I touch the throttle up a hair. Turning, I note Mist in his Charger, looks like he is about to step out, too. Now that brings back memories. What was that old Steiner joke? Hmmmm... something about scout lances of assault 'Mechs...
Duncan breaks my distraction with, “Wow, great piloting there Sean! You almost got two techs with one step! Care to walk in a straight line?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
He is right, I let the stick wander. A quick zoom to the side shows two of the three stooges are indeed flipping me off, maybe the accidental step won't seem so much like a mistake and will remind them that I am a pilot.
I realize that I have missed something else... a pristine Dervish? Did we buy a ringer? I have to wonder... if we have one, maybe there are similar pilots in even more powerful 'Mechs with every other unit in this attack. Wow, maybe this plan was drawn up knowing we had more firepower than the last engagement implied and I should just shake off this bad feeling I've had since the Major tossed today's plan out there... maybe we have a good chance after all.

[Spokes]

Li rests her hands on the D shaped control yokes on either side of the command couch. Left stick for throttle, right for the elevation on the particle cannon. The horizontal rotation on the cannon was minimal, and the control yokes allowed for very little lateral adjustment. Unlike most 'Mechs, a pilot drives a Scorpion mostly with her feet.

The deck crew is waving another 'Mech out onto the bay floor. A bright box snaps around the machine as it moves, IFF information crawling out to one side on the display. Red lettering flashes. . .TYPE UNKNOWN. Li can feel more than hear the computer's ventillation equipment spin up as it digs through its warbook files. Seconds pass, and the red letters are replaced with the designator MON-66 Mongoose.

Li glances down at a secondary display and whistles softly. Wow, look at the sensor kit on that. The lack of forward recon suddenly didn't seem so crazy.

The Mongoose moved past, and now the deck crew was waving her on. Li gave the throttle a little pressure and her Scorpion started forward with slow steps, only one leg off the ground at a time. Reaching the center of the bay, Li eased off the throttle and swept her eyes over the displays linked to the hazzard cameras spread out under the hull. Clear. Li shifted her feet, right forward, left back.

The Scorpion turned in place, feet thudding on the bay floor with each step. Pedals centered, throttle forward, and Virgil fell in behind the old 'Goose.

[Thom Frankfurt]

Forward Operating Base Ballista,
foothills of the Grand Khadaar Mountains


"This is ridiculous." William kept repeating to himself as he looked over the various maps and data that was provided from the days sorte. There were too many unknown variables for his liking, and from the looks on the other mercs faces, he wasn't the only one with that thought. Even when he worked for the Blackhearts they had more intel that this, and those were planetary raids. Not skirmishes with some a-hole in your own backyard. He pinched the bridge of his nose then looked up at the map again, trying to think about what he'd do if he were the enemy. And as he continued to study the maps the scenarios played out in his mind over and over again, with each playing getting grimmer with nastier surprises for the attackers.

Now if I was the badguy, I would mine the frak out of the passes here, here, and here. I'd also already have the likely approaches zeroed in with arty and set up my forces to wipe out whatever remained if anything even got pass the shelling.

With a sigh of disgust, Billy signed and headed off to where his Wolverine was being stowed. He passed by some young officer giving the old guy some s**t about one thing or another. If he had to guess it had something to do with the Op. Billy then played with the thought of kicking the tar out of the brass, after all he couldn't charge blindly off to his death if he was in the brig. With his scowl now turning into a grin, he hoofed onward to his mech.

His mech... he liked the sound of that. He was still getting used to that thought. His own war machine. The annoying chants of 'TOG, TOG, TOG' snapped Will out of patting himself on the back for a job well done, but you had to admit it wasn't everyday that one got blacklisted by the MRBC and escaped with his ride. So he'd have to spend the next decade or so out on the fringes of known space. He shrugged to himself it was only a slight annoyance, just so long as the government (or rebellion in this case) kept him fed, housed, and lining his pockets with cash he'd stay.

"Now ain't that a pretty sight!" Billy blurted out looking upon the 55 ton monster before him and was rewarded by a couple of techs looking curiously his way. Broad shouldered and stocking looking, the Wolverine looked like the personification of Billy himself made machine. Dull patchworked armor plating with the occasional rust stain made up the rough exterior, bristling with several laser cannon and a missile rack slung over one shoulder, the Wolverine stood ready for it's pilot to mount up. The mercenary then grabbed ahold of the rungs recently welded to the mech's body and scaled on up the side to the shoulder opposite of the missile rack and ducked through the hatch on the side of the head.

The cockpits of battlemechs and expecially the Wolverine model were notoriously cramped, usually reeking of several generations of sweat, blood and other unmentionable bodily fluids. But this mech's cockpit was a little different. While it certainly had the musky scent of previously owners it also had a faint earthly smell from when the cockpit was half filled with the swampy muck from wherever the strange merchants had found the mech. dog-ing the hatch, Bill then threw the lever that immediately brought a slight rumbled from the mech's heart as it's engine rumbled to life. Bill then looked out the small cockpit canopy to check the scaffolding and catwalks around the makeshift hanger and finding no one where they could easily look in, wiggled himself underneath the command console to a small rusty circuit box. Fishing out two magnets from his pockets, he placed them on the circuit box for several seconds. He then removed the magnets and crawled out from under the console to find the monitors and displays lit up.

Once again he gave thanks to the old tech that had taught him a way to 'hot-wire' the old, obsolete security systems the old models sometimes had. He then undressed and doned his MechWarrior gear. An old, worn coolant vest, some battered and much abused plasteel boots, he then donned his neural helmet, a heavy contraption that weighed down heavy upon his shoulders. Then flipping toggles he checked over his systems and finding nothing out of the ordinary save the systems security system flashing an angry red malfunction light at him began following the progress of his comrades.

In a staggered formation they were slowly filing out and he added on to the ongoing chorus of green lights his own 'Billy Bones his Fancy here, all systems go!' And with that he spilled out after the other MechWarriors hoping that they would have that Devil's luck that MechWarriors were supposed to have. He had a feeling that they were going to need it.

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 08 March 2013 - 05:21 AM.

[cmopatrick]

Slowing to a near standstill, 'Goose now awaits the tech waving the Wolverine out. I feel like a sandwich filling, with a medium on either side. Heck, the Wolverine alone weighs more than twice what 'Goose does.
As I stand here, I have to admit to myself that I'm never really sure what I think about Bones, the Wolverine's pilot; it's something in his eyes... not sure if it is pain or compromise or something else, but I usually rather he not be standing behind me. No, I don't have any serious reason why, but my gut has kept my rump out of trouble on too many occasions to stop trusting it now. I bet there are a lot of things I don't want to know about him, and even more that he would rather keep to himself.
On the other hand, he is a decent shot and I suspect that as long as we both have better things to do, we won't have time to let any tensions build up.

Speaking of tension, I seem to be rather warmer than I should be.
“Duncan, please increase the coolant flow in the suit.”
“I'll never understand why you can't just be cool like everyone else. Oh, wait, it's because you're...”
“Increase the cooling, Duncan.”
“Yeah, well there seems to be a restriction, flow is only about 82 percent.”
Great, just great.

Every other MechWarrior I have ever met wears a simple coolant vest and is otherwise just about naked in the cockpit. I, however have made a huge concession to the fact that the 'Goose has problems with it's CT laser's cooling; I wear a Star League era cooling suit. Stupid thing cost almost as much as 'Goose did, but I tend to value my legs and... er... other body parts, and in any long engagement, it can get hot in here. Really, really hot.
You see, about a hundred shots and the coolant jacket on that CT laser is toast. It has something to do with them squeezing it into a tight space in the first place... it sits right on top of the engine itself. Worse, right now that ML has the coolant jacket I stole off of my head mounted SL; it's one of those tricks i learned years ago to keep me in the field; not perfect, but it keeps me fighting without frying. Well, sometimes... it might not be quite up to the job for as long as the right part would.
Anyway, I consider zeroing the throttle with the hope that the Scorpion behind me doesn't run me over. Duncan will be no help finding the problem, the 'Goose long ago lost the unit that tracks suit problems. Thing is, this antique occasionally gets the equivalent of a coronary and needs a little massaging to get the arteries flowing again. I keep putting off the messy job of cleaning the hundred meters or so of fine tubing woven into it, maybe I can work out the obstruction while I'm out today... wait... oh, that would about do it.
“How about now?”
“Pressure returning to normal, flow increasing as requested. What were you doing, sitting on your hose?”
I know his smart acre remark was preprogrammed somewhere, and the programmer probably meant for there to be multiple meanings to the jab... but embarrassingly enough he isn't that far off: the hose just mechward of the suit coupling had gotten a little bent when I shifted before locking the harness down and I missed checking it in my musings on whatever. Simply unlatching that catch to let the hose go straight has solved the problem.
Thinking of the double entendre in Duncan's retort, I murmur, “Yeah, if only that were my problem.”

(edit for autocorrect error and one missing word)

Edited by cmopatrick, 08 March 2013 - 06:12 AM.

[guardian wolf]

Forward Operating Base Ballista,
foothills of the Grand Khadaar Mountains

Shade exited the briefing room, with a mixture of feelings, for two reasons. It was the first time that both he, and his second half agreed on something, and that was this op was going to end up in FUBAR. And two, they couldn't decide what to do about it. Shade wanted to stay and look for a way out of it if it went bad, but his second half reminded him of what their job was, and why they needed that money. They also looked to the people, and decided that it was better they stay and fight for them.
(This is the convo happening between William and his other personality)
Better us then them

Aye, but we also do this for the money

That doesn't mean that they don't need the help

Stay focused or we both die

Right,

Shade generally tried to avoid people, as they never really understood his condition. That was one of the reasons he was out here, to make some money, so he could head out to Halloran IV. There resided someone Shade had always cared deeply about, was too afraid to actually tell her, for fear that he'd have to tell her about his condition. He walked up to his bay, and the tech just kind of nodded at Shade.

"She alright?"

"Yous got a strange Loadout here sir,"

"Don't worry about it tech, just keep her up and running,"

He shook his head, mumbling something about 'cocky mech jocks'. Shade ignored him, and climbed up into the cockpit. He grabbed his helmet and got ready to strap it on, when he flicked the start up switch. The computer immediately yelled in an old scottish accent.

"An' who the **** are you?!?!"

"Oh **** off,"

The passphrase was accepted, and it began to cycle through the different systems, checking each and every one. He then strapped on his helmet, and checked the controls. They were responsive as ever. He then brought up a digital image of the map, and examined their routes. No recon, that meant that they were going in blind. That meant that Shade was going to have to be a forward observer, if they were going to make it anywhere. Those LRMs were going to need something to target. He wished he had a TAG laser. That would have come in handy, but no matter. It was no use going over what they didn't have. Shade checked the map and looked for choke points, ambush sites, anything... his second half was processing what he found in the meanwhile. In the end, they looked at a tactical picture of what seemed to be where a heavily fortified positions should be, and where they shouldn't be. And it looked like their attack vector steered them through all of the strong point defenses. He wouldn't say anything because most viewed it as insubordination, so he would go along with it. They hoped they would be pleasantly surprised in the op.

Edited by guardian wolf, 08 March 2013 - 07:22 AM.

[guardian wolf]

Finally Shade took his mech over to the gathering point. He ran the odds on this operation going off without a hitch, and that was a 0% chance. Looking at his chances of surviving, they were at about 40%, to maybe 30%, but he'd had worse. The reason he never let anybody on about his second personality, was that the first time he did that, the man tried to kill them, but they easily reversed his intentions. But here, that was another story, any of them knowing about his "problem" would take his chances of survival and throw them into the negative range. He tested the weight behind his blade. It responded well. He then called out over the comms.

"This is Shade, ready op,"

[dal10]

(since i don't feel like calling him andrei all the time, Andrei will be referred to as mist when he is in a mech, mist is shorter)

Mist took up the a$$ end charlie position in the line, as not only was he tied for slowest mech with the shadow hawk and the dervish, but seeing an assault mech was as much a psychological deterrent as it was a military one. especially since this assault mech was as fast as the average medium. Being unable to identify the assault mech just makes it worse, because the opposition couldn't figure out whether to rush and and fight at close range, as one would an awesome, or try to duke it out at a distance, such as with an atlas or a king crab (face it, an atlas has a primarily short range loadout. it only has a single lrm 20 for long range.)

(i got nothing else for now.)