216 replies to this topic

[OblivionSK]

CW+228 = epic combat
public que+228 = epic combat
mech builds+228 = epic combat
therefor 228 is ≥ epic combat
So, as you can clearly see from the 228 epic combat theorem, the 228th is an amazing group to be part of. Ive learned a lot and laughed a lot and blown stuff up a lot. An amazing unit

Edited by oblivionshadownite, 01 January 2015 - 08:40 AM.

[IronChance]

DEFENSES INADEQUATE, EMBATTLED HOUSES STRUGGLE TO HOLD GROUND

Sirus Conroy
Comstar Associated Press Service
Embedded with the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment
Occupied territory, somewhere in the Free World’s League


Another fireball erupts into the sky over the massive blast door that protects the narrow pass that leads into the valley where the orbital defense cannon that the guys have affectionately nicknamed “Soft Serve Sunny” (Sunny is short for Sunspot-3L Particle Projection Cannon) sits and wards away any bombardment or invasion from enemy warships in orbit. The fireball is from the destruction of yet another of our automated defense turrets that are supposed to keep attackers from getting too close, but never do. The “Soft Serve Sunny” nickname is because if any attacker gets close enough to the power generator for the massive NPPC (Naval Particle Projection Cannon), they can quickly turn it into a pile of molten metal that in turn changes the ice formations around us into an avalanche of slush.

Losing the gun is bad enough, but the slush makes evacuating the heavy equipment before the main invasion force lands all but impossible. It’s this reason, the prospect of no easy way to withdraw, that makes the members of the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment look grimly at the wall as they count the seconds to the inevitable destruction of the blast door’s shielding mechanism. After that, the door will burst open like the skin of a rotted tomato from the pressure of exploding enemy munitions.

I’ve seen it before. Butler, when we tried to hold back Clan Jade falcon. Wing, when we fought against Marik’s various mercenary companies. If there is one truth so far in this war, it’s that no one seemed to think they’d need to invest too much in defenses.

“When that door drops, you’re gonna see a full company of light mechs come rushing right through.” IronChance (real name withheld by individual’s request) is leaning against the side of a maintenance shed as he points down the valley. He tosses his cigarette into the snow with disdain and it hisses in agreement with him. “A full company! They’ll run right past all these damn useless calliope and laser turrets and hit the generators before we can take two damn steps. Even if we wipe all the damn things out, there’ll just be another wave hot on their heels to finish the job.”

An alarm klaxon sounds and I turn from the grizzled veteran to look at the blast door as it melts and sags inward. IronChance snorts and starts walking towards his TDR-9S Thunderbolt “IronBolt”, a 65 ton heavy battlemech commonly in use among most front line units of the Inner Sphere. “Helluva damn way to fight a damn war,” he mutters as he passes a technician and gets on the hydraulic lift that carries him up towards the cockpit as I watch.

A scream of twisted metal that echoes down the valley announces the collapse of the blast door and as the Thunderbolt powers up, I run for the cover of the nearby observation post. Inside, it’s warm and I quickly pour myself a cup of coffee before leaning over the shoulder of Adept XI-Rho Robin “True Leader” Wright. She’s been assigned as my official liaison to the 228th by Comstar. After greeting me with a tired smile, she turns back to continue looking at an overview of the battle provided by spy satellite feed. It doesn’t look good. I see IronChance’s Thunderbolt displayed as a blue blip with his ID tag attached. It moves to form up with another group of blue blips and then they accelerate to intercept a group of red blips moving fast toward the gun’s power generator. Too fast. It looks like yet another toe-hold in Marik space will need to be abandoned.

Scant hours remain on our contract with House Steiner and rumors abound about the company’s future. Some say we’ll stay with the Lyran’s, others that we’ll go take advantage of lucrative contracts on the Liao-Davion border. Most believable, however, is that we’ll head directly into the lion’s den itself and try to relieve the besieged and beleaguered defenders of the Free Rasalhague Republic as they desperately try to hold back the advance of the Clans.

“House Steiner has been a generous and competent employer,” explained 228th True Leader in an interview conducted earlier. “But it’s become clear to Comstar that there is a region of space where our services would not only be even more appreciated, but are absolutely critical.”

Wherever we go next, I’m wishing we were already there. More alarm klaxons sound as the generator evaporates and the light from its death fireball comes through the blast-resistant windows and floods the room with a foreboding orange glow. I take my leave of True Leader as she bends to the task of sending out the evacuation codes and follow all the other civilians and support personnel to the Leopard Class dropships already prepped and waiting on nearby landing pads.

Edited by IronChance, 02 January 2015 - 09:32 AM.

[Deadfire]

Today we have our tag planted firmly on Hermagor, Some say it was the site of 50% of cw battles.

Huge thanks to all the units that pushed with us to remove those Trashborns from the planet, the mead is on us tonight!

Edited by Deadfire, 04 January 2015 - 12:21 AM.

[Deadfire]

Looks like we are FRR for another week, what a week this past one has been.

[SgtSkullShatter]

Hails, sorry to bother you but i seem to have challenhed a 1v1 vs one of yuou and aksed for a friend inv but i must have canelled. btw am drunk but still want to pit my dire whale vs w/e whoever accepted and ge did accept.. ty for yuor time

[Deadfire]

SgtSkullShatter, on 09 January 2015 - 10:22 PM, said:

Hails, sorry to bother you but i seem to have challenhed a 1v1 vs one of yuou and aksed for a friend inv but i must have canelled. btw am drunk but still want to pit my dire whale vs w/e whoever accepted and ge did accept.. ty for yuor time

Wat?

Guessing because he didn't return that he sobered up a bit...

[IronChance]

The Crucible

Sirus Conroy
Comstar Associated Press Service
Embedded with the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment
Occupied territory, somewhere in contested Rasalhague space



“It’s hard to explain to an outsider,” says True Leader as we walk through the massive ‘mech hangar with its rows of looming mech bays running for at least a mile along each side. She laughs to herself and shakes her head. Strands of her long blonde hair waft and stray in the warm updrafts of idling mech engines and catch the yellow glare of the arc lights above us. For a moment she looks more like the girl who grew up on a grain farm on Terra than the high ranking adept in ComStar’s ROM division. “ComStar has always been a little different from the rest of the Inner Sphere, but it’s especially true with the 228th.”

She looks over at Precentor Panicbutton and laughs and shakes her head again as he holds a black glove in front of a terrified initiate’s face and yells at the top of his lungs. The words carry clearly across the cavernous space between us.

“Does this smell clean to you, initiate? Does it look clean?”

“Yes?” the unfortunate man replies with a confused expression on his face.

“What? You think this is clean? Maybe in whatever sloppy, cut-rate, filthy back-world mercenary unit you come to us from this passes for clean, but not here! This is the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment! We do not compare ourselves to ordinary measures of clean! Here, you are expected to find new and unparalleled definitions of clean! Do I make myself clear?”

The initiate’s response is lost to the deafening hum of a nearby BNC-3E Banshee assault class battlemech powering up its newly installed fusion reactor engine. The overpowering sound drives True Leader and me into ‘Mech Hangar Twelve’s operations office. She closes the door behind us and rolls her eyes.

“That beast is well-named,” she exclaims and I am forced to agree. She offers me a cup of tea and I gratefully accept. The recent campaign to reclaim territory for the Free Rasalhague Republic has been going well for the 228th and several planets have fallen to the skill and tenacity of the regiment’s pilots. The strangely scented and intoxicating teas seized from the hastily abandoned Clan supply depots have been one benefit. Seeing the unit’s most famed and decorated battle leader in action has been another.

“He’s really something,” True Leader admits when I prompt her again about Panicbutton. “He’s one of the few pilots I know of who can beat most anyone else in a duel while also commanding a full company in a hot LZ. Not just that, but he actually cares about the new pilots, too.”

I point out to her that her observation is hard to believe when he’s often seen dressing down an initiate for not cleaning his pilot’s gloves well enough.

“You don’t understand,” she says after savoring another sip of the flavorful brew. She sets down the cup and clasps her hands and gives me a steady stare as if I better get what she’s about to say down right. I make sure my pen is working. “He’s saving their lives. The more pilots he can get to pay attention to as many details as they can, the more aware and awake they’ll be in combat. The more awake they are, the more likely they’ll survive. The more battles they survive, the better they’ll become.”

From what I’ve seen so far, what he’s doing is working. That being said, if I were a merc looking to join 228th, I might first research all the pilot glove cleaning strategies I could.

Edited by IronChance, 13 January 2015 - 09:42 PM.

[IronChance]

What one hand doesn’t know

Sirus Conroy
Comstar Associated Press Service
Embedded with the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment
Occupied territory, somewhere in contested Rasalhague space



“And so it was that in the year 3025, while the great houses of the Inner Sphere were locked in mortal combat, that a small group of…”

Deadfire’s voice is drowned out by a loud snore coming from the back row of the small auditorium. I’m leaning against the back wall and can easily see, not to mention hear, where it is coming from. John “Vercinix” Hume sits sprawled in his chair with his legs stretching into the aisle and his head thrown over the back. His mouth is gaping and the rise of his chest suggests we are in for another loud interruption to Deadfire’s speech. Instead, True Leader, sitting in front of where I am standing, reaches her leg across the aisle and kicks his shin. Vercinix leaps awake with a cough and a soft curse. He blinks and then gives his assailant a hard stare. She glares at him and makes a gesture to him that suggests he had been sawing logs. He returns a gesture that suggests something altogether quite different.

As Deadfire continues to recite the entire history of the 228th to the assembled pilots and officers of the same unit, Vercinix gets up and stretches and notices me standing nearby. He nods and indicates that I should follow him before proceeding out the open doors of the auditorium while ignoring the daggers True Leader stares at his back. She makes no move to intercept either of us, however, so I seize the opportunity to talk to one of 228th’s high ranking officers alone.

Vercinix leads me into a room just on the other side of the doors that turns out to be a small kitchen. He pours each of us a cup of coffee and then produces a small flask from somewhere inside his jumpsuit and holds it over my cup. He raises his eyebrows at me and I enthusiastically assent. Jumpship coffee is perhaps the worst, but often the most necessary, concoction known to man. A little whiskey goes a long way toward making it at all desirable.

“So, you’re exempt from the mandatory monthly lore readings?” I ask him as we sip our brews and lean on the counter.

“No, no. Not at all. I’m sure I’ll catch hell for this, but since I can recite every damn word he’s going to say forwards and backwards, I doubt I’ll get worse than a tongue lashing.” He gives me another wink and his eyes twinkle with mischief. “Besides. I already know how it’s going to end, which is the only part ever worth sticking around for.”

“Really? How?”

“Our new marching orders,” he says mysteriously. As if to add emphasis to his tone, the lights dim and a deep thrumming fills the walls, floor and very air as the giant ship’s Kearny-Fuchida drives warm up. “Say goodbye to any Space Viking friends you may have made, buddy boy. We’re off to parts unknown.”

“What?” I struggle to say as the lights come back to full intensity. The term ‘Space Vikings’ was the playful nickname everyone in the 228th had given to the service men and women of the Free Rasalhague Republic. I could only guess that we had received a new contract with another house. “Where?”

Vercinix makes me squirm for a bit before I can weasel the answer out of him. Finally, he admits that we’re on our way to Clan Smoke Jaguar occupied space. My eyebrows threaten to climb up over my head. I point out to him that we were probably nearing the point in Deadfire’s speech where he talks about how the Clans had shattered the old 228th regiment. Was the new 228th on some sort of suicide mission?

“No. Nothing like that. Not yet, anyway.” The last part he adds with a grimace. “No. We’re going to sleep with the enemy for a bit. Word has reached the brass that the Clans have been so impressed with Inner Sphere mercs that they’re offering mercenary contracts. We’re going to go be bad guys for a bit.”

My blood goes cold and the lights dim again as the jump drives engage. Vercinix’s playful, devil-may-care smile does little to settle my nerves. When I ask him why the 228th would do such a thing, he gives me cryptic responses and old platitudes of “know thine enemy” and “one hand doesn’t need to know what the other is doing.” For being the regiment’s morale officer, I don’t find Vercinix to be very reassuring at the moment.

[biscuitbutt81]

I'd like to do a few group queue drops with you guys if that's possible. Who should I message in the mercstar teamspeak?

[IronChance]

The Ride Along

Sirus Conroy
Comstar Associated Press Service
Embedded with the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment
Schuyler, on the border between Clans Ghost Bear and Smoke Jaguar



“Bravo. Stormcrow. Center Torso.”

Panicbutton’s voice crackles over the speakers mounted above the pilot’s couch in the cockpit of the GAR-D Gargoyle 80 ton Clan Assault ‘Mech. I grunt and try not to slip off my corner of the seat as the pilot I’m sharing it with, Antonio “Defunked” Torres pivots the surprisingly nimble machine to the right and lights up an enemy Ghost Bear Stormcrow in his targeting reticle. The 55 ton ‘mech tries to twist and backpedal away from our advancing forces. Just before he slips behind a large outcropping, Defunked lets loose a blast from the arm-mounted medium pulse lasers and hits the thing squarely in the chest.

The ‘mech’s engine compartment is pierced and after a second in which it freezes and the cockpit explodes out and upward, the pilot ejects amidst a storm of shattered glass. As the Stormcrow slowly topples forward, we are close enough to hear the muted crunch of its falling chassis as it crumples to the floor of the sulphur-choked valley.

Defunked doesn’t react. His face is frozen in an expression of cold determination that stands in defiant counterpoint to the face-melting atmosphere outside and the sauna-like temperature inside. I pull my sweat-soaked shirt away from my chest and wipe my eyes and try not to drip on anything that looks important. Defunked pretends not to notice. I think he’s being polite.

Earlier that week, when my request for a ride along had finally been approved, I was overjoyed to find out it would be in a Clan ‘mech. Not much has been publicly released about these devastating weapons the invading Clans have introduced to the Inner Sphere. I was excited to be one of the first, if not the very first, to get a chance to report on them. Vercinix had insisted that the means by which the 228th had procured them remain off the record, but I can tell you that there has been a considerable black market in Clan equipment since their invasion started.

Defunked, however, had been less than enthused at having to share a cockpit with me. The wiry warrior had eyed me with distaste as we waited in the mechbay for the Gargoyle to be prepped. The campaign to wrest control of Schuyler from Clan Ghost Bear was entering the mop-up phase, so no one saw the harm in me crowding into the same cockpit with Defunked to see what these machines were like first hand.

Unfortunately, the cockpit was a single-seater and left little room for extras - especially human-sized extras. I’m not an oversized man by any means - only a little over average height and weight - but I think he had been hoping I’d be more undersized than over.

“All right,” Defunked had said as we climbed onto the hydraulic lift. “Come on, fatty. Try not to sweat on me.”

I had no idea how difficult even that simple task would prove.







“Dropship incoming! Turn! Turn!”

Panicbutton’s voice screams over the speakers and I find something to hold on to as Defunked lurches around again. My stomach sinks to my ankles as I see the Leopard class dropship sweep its lasers over several nearby friendly ‘mechs and unload four enemy battlemechs.

“Holy ****!”

“It’s a trap! That’s the rest of the star!”

“I’m cored! ******* dropship…”

“Clear comms! Give me a target!”

Panicbutton’s voice cuts through the noise of the excited chatter of 228th pilots. Defunked is already lighting up the biggest target and is letting lose a patient stream of pulse laser fire as he triggers them in a chain. His target is a Hellbringer and it’s looking right at us. It’s also moving closer to us. I don’t fail to notice that the other ‘mechs in the enemy pilot’s star are following his lead.

Defunked glances at the target info and sees the Hellbringer is loaded with a brawler configuration – Clan Ultra AC20, SRMs, pulse lasers. Defunked gives ground and speaks the target designation into his mic. Panicbutton repeats it and suddenly the back of the Hellbringer explodes in a shower of twisted metal. The ‘mech collapses forward, but not before delivering a solid stream of autocannon rounds to the Gargoyle’s lower torso. The sound is a terrible gong and my insides turn to water.

Defunked twists the Gargoyle back and forth and continues to give ground. I know he is doing his best to hide our damaged center, but the constant motion does little to help the fear-induced nausea that has seized me. I grab hold of anything I can and shut tight every orifice I have and begin praying. The ejection system for the Gargoyle had never been tested with two people.

Two more enemy ‘mechs are destroyed by Panicbutton and the rest of the company. The last one is a Timberwolf. It’s heavily damaged, but seems intent on delivering the death blow to our battered ‘mech. We stop twisting. I give Defunked what must be a terrified look.

He doesn’t notice. He’s sneering at the display in front of him. He jabs his thumb down on the engine override button and releases a full alpha at the Timberwolf’s damaged left shoulder. The side of the ‘mech explodes and half of its weapons fall away. It responds with what it has left and we are rocked by a blast from its particle projection cannon. The heat generated from our alpha strike sets off automated engine temperature warnings and threatens to overwhelm my senses. Defunked ignores the alarm, the ppc fire and my involuntary moans of fear and immediately fires another alpha at the enemy’s opposite shoulder.

Luckily, I succeed in not passing out as the internal temperature soars so high I feel like my brain is starting to cook like a hardboiled egg. Instead, I blink away sweat and look out the reinforced cockpit glass and blearily make out that the enemy ‘mech has lost its other shoulder and is toppling over to the ground in a smoking ruin.

“Not today, *****,” Defunked says with a satisfied smirk. Through the heat waves rolling through the cockpit, I see him turn to me with a questioning look. “What’s that smell? Did you fart?”

[Dracol]

o7

Great match last night over the 6% of Gestalt.

[Deadfire]

#loreisdead

[Deadfire]

well it looks like the Inner Sphere woke up, now if lore serves me right which Clan did the new SLDF attack first...

[ApolloKaras]

Shout out to the 228th! Appears the CSJ front is treating you well :-)

[Deadfire]

Prussian Havoc, on 01 February 2015 - 06:54 AM, said:

Feel free to check in with Deadfire, Queensblade and Peter2000 from 228, if you would like further examples from a Mercenary Corps Unit on how their Reception, Staging, Onward-movement and Integration (RSOI) is progressing under CSJ.

If not for 228, CSJ would not have the fabulous dynamic of the tandem efforts of -SA- having a #TruePeerCompetitor with which to #RaiseAllOurGames!!!


In the finest traditions of Wolf's Dragoons, the Northwind Highlanders and other Lore-based Units - 228 is a #GameChanger...

One look at the CSJ map will confirm this FACT.

I'd say its going alright

[IronChance]

Games, Names and Death

Sirus Conroy
Comstar Associated Press Service
Embedded with the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment
Deep space



“Juice, you got any threes?”

“Go fish, Pisces… Hey. Get it? Fish? Pisces?”

“You’re ******* kidding me. You’re seriously telling me you have no threes?”

“Did I stutter?”

The place is The Poop Deck, the nickname for the main pilot’s lounge on board the JumpShip Alcibiades. The time is around 2100 DZT (drop zone time) for our planned invasion zone. I’m sitting at a table with four of 228th’s elite pilots. Like all men and women of the 228th, they commonly refer to each other by their call signs. Most don’t even know each other’s real names.

“Makes it easier to forget them when they die,” True Leader had explained to me earlier. Her tone had been matter of fact, but the look in her eyes had been touched with sadness. She sat with me now at the table, sipping tea and watching four pilots play a juvenile card game so they could pretend that the coming invasion didn’t mean anything to them.

They knew each other as Edmiester, Juicebox, Pisceszero and El Duckerino. The banter was lively, acerbic to the point of caustic – and always laced with an undertone of deep friendship. What was unsaid mattered far more than what was said.

“I swear to god, you cough up those threes or I’m reaching over this table and-”

“And what? Do something.”

“Don’t make me come over there. Do not make me-“

“This is ridiculous,” El Duckerino interjects. As he waves his arms in exasperation his German accent becomes more noticeable with every word. “I don’t know why we bother playing this game. We never finish a single hand!”

“Ducky,” Pisces says and leans forward and extends a finger at Juicebox. “Ducky, all I’m saying is the game is played on an honor system and this walking argument against freebirth over here is clearly cheating.”

“What?” Juicebox raises his hands innocently.

At that moment, Vercinix appears over Juice’s shoulder and squints down at his cards. He stands upright and announces “He’s cheating.”

Before anyone can respond, the intercom crackles to life and a voice calls Vercinix to his office. He sighs and shakes his head.

“Now I remember what I came in here for,” he mutters as he walks over to a cabinet and gets a box of tissues. “Panicbutton made a claimant cry again.” As Vercinix walks out the door, True Leader smirks and takes another sip of tea. I look around the table and see nothing has changed, except Pisces is holding a knife and pointing it at Juicebox.

“I will cut you. I will cut you with this butter knife.”

“Juice, I got 100 c-bills says he can’t cut you with a butter knife,” Edmiester states as he jumps forward in his chair. Until then he had been almost comatose, playing the game as if it was a meditation. No one was really sure when the ace light ‘mech pilot had joined the unit. It was as if he had simply materialized one day. Everyone treated him as if he had always been there.

As the four of them begin to engage in an animated discussion over the lethality of various kitchen cutlery, I realize that the card game will never end. It will continue as long as the pilots are able to play it, which is the only thing that matters.

[IronChance]

FAKE FIGHTS AND NEW ORDERS

Sirus Conroy
Comstar Associated Press Service
Embedded with the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment
System space, undisclosed star system



For looking as big as it is, the interior of an Overlord Class Dropship can get a little crowded. What with most of the space being taken up by reinforced bulkheads, redundant systems and cavernous hangars filled with BattleMechs and supplies, there’s little room left for crew and passengers. I’m reminded of this as True Leader and I are led by Adept Peter2000 down a narrow corridor choked with stacks of plastic containers and cables dropping in tied loops from the ceiling.

As we pass through the hatch to a small control room, I see Peter reach up towards a piece of notebook paper hanging above the opening. Before he grabs it, I can see “FRR OR RIOT” spelled out in large red letters. Peter crumples it up and stuffs it in his pocket and then waves us inside. The control room has two chairs and several banks of computers and display screens. In fact, one entire wall of the cramped space is dominated by monitors. Two screens are active and show views of simulated battlefields from the perspectives of simulated ‘Mech cockpits.

“Bam! Bam! Bam! Queenblade makes it look easy!” A familiar voice blares out of the speakers hung from the high corners of the room. “Now let’s see if he can go the distance!”

“Is that… Duncan Fisher?” I ask True Leader.

“He wishes,” she mutters.

“All right, Queen,” Peter says as he punches a button and leans down to speak into a microphone. “Nice job. That’s two apiece. Now, let’s have you and Gream get set for the tie-breaker, please.”

As he presses a few more buttons, Peter gestures out the window above the main console. The room beyond is dimly lit by only a couple of floodlights, but I can see twelve egg-shaped compartments lined up in three rows of four. Peter explains this is their main simulation room, although there is a secondary one on the other side of the hangar. 228th uses it for testing out new ‘Mech loadouts and tactics.

Today he’s having Queenblade and Gream in the eggs, plus a referee. Queen is testing a pulse laser equipped Firestarter against Gream’s short range missile loaded Griffin to determine which are more efficient at destroying a BattleMech’s legs. Peter finishes transferring the data from the last match into a spreadsheet and then frowns at the wall screens.

“Pudding, reload the match and get set up to referee again, please.”

When nothing happens, Peter starts to repeat himself, but then all twelve view screens activate at once and a message flashes across in bold red letters “FRR OR RIOT.” Before Peter can react, the message disappears and all but the two original monitors go dark. The match is reset.

“God damn it, Pudding,” Peter says under his breath.

“Welcome to Solaris, now let me show you the sky!” Queen calls out in his announcer’s voice.

“Mmm-hmm,” Gream replies in his unmistakably soft and deadly tone.

“Oh, that Gream is one sassy pilot, but the fans love him!”

As the two move to engage each other, I turn to True Leader and try to get her to tell me where the 228th will be taking their next contract.

“Oh, I’m sure with your instincts for hard-nosed investigative journalism, you’ll be able to suss it out.”

[Commissar Aku]

What a bunch of spawn camping *******.

[DSkou7]

XPH Aku, on 17 February 2015 - 10:36 AM, said:

What a bunch of spawn camping *******.

Silly space viking your helmet is on backwards.

[IronChance]

Supply Lines and Battle Lines

Sirus Conroy
Comstar Associated Press Service
Embedded with the 228th Independent Battlemech Regiment
Occupied territory, somewhere in Free Rasalhague space



The rain beats steadily down onto the hood of the decades old Aston-Martin Fiver Traveler we had commandeered just a couple of hours before. I can barely see the building we are parked in front of through the gloom of the night. I had wanted to go in with the others, but True Leader had steadfastly refused.

She and I sit in the rear seat, waiting for three of 228th’s pilots to come back out of the door they had disappeared into a half hour ago. We’re on a mission to replenish the regiment’s dwindling supplies. I don’t know what significance the squat, darkened structure plays in a supply run, but I had been itching to find out.

“The locals are scared,” True Leader had said when she told me I had to stay in the car with her. “If we can’t liberate this planet, they won’t want anyone knowing they helped us – least of all a nosy reporter. The Clans don’t take kindly to disobedience.”

Through the rain streaked window, I can see Val, Kyle and Queenblade come out of the front door and walk towards the Traveler. I let out a breath I am not aware I’m holding. They open the doors and get in the car, rain dripping from their faces. Val slides her slight frame silently into the back seat with me and True Leader. Kyle gets behind the wheel with a gleeful smile on his face. Finally, Queenblade rides shotgun. Literally.

“Whelp, we’ve got food and medicine coming our way,” Queen says as he stares out at the building as Kyle guns the engine and we peel away. Well, as close to peeling as the ancient automobile can manage at any rate.

“How’d you swing that?” True Leader asks with an arched eyebrow.

“The Shadowbroker never reveals his secrets!” Queen exclaims with a wink.

“Queen…”

“I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse,” he says with a shrug.

“This offer wouldn’t have anything to do with whether or not our recon patrols ever notice their smuggling enterprise would it?”

Queen looks back at her and winks again and smiles. True Leader sighs and leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. Val smiles enigmatically and Kyle keeps it up with the crazy grin.

When we get back to the barracks a pilot known simply as The Beef is holding an empty container of .50 caliber ammo in front of Zargslayer’s face. Neither of them look happy. Kyle flicks his brother’s ear as he walks by and Zarg has to take it without responding as Beef leans in closer to him.

“What is this?” Beef inquires in a timbre that is perhaps the deepest bass I’ve ever heard. Combined with his French accent, it makes his voice unmistakable. “Where are my cookies?”

“Look, I don’t know, all right?” Zargslayer responds with an innocent shrug. “Supplies are running out. You know that.”

“Impossible! This was my private stash!”

“I don’t know. Maybe one of the new guys.”

“Which one?”

“How should I know? They all look alike to me, anyway.”

Alarm klaxons sound. Everybody drops everything and races to their lockers to grab ‘mech pilot jumpsuits before dashing out the door to the ‘mech bays across the airfield. Soon, the entire barracks is empty and True Leader and I make our way to the command center. Deadfire is there, running his hands through rapidly graying hair. Before he pulls on the headset to address his troops, a voice breaks over the general audience intercom.

“Greetings, ‘Mechwarriors. This is The Beef speaking. I do not know which one of you has broken into my private collection of delicious baked goods, but I hope they will aid you in our coming battle. Also, you owe me a package of soft, chewy cookies. That is all.”

Deadfire doesn’t seem to know whether he wants to be angry or amused. He decides to just shake his head and starts issuing orders to his drop commanders. I silently wish them all luck, just like I always do, except this time I throw in an extra wish that Queenblade’s new friends have access to some good cookies.