39 replies to this topic

[Thom Frankfurt]

Blackheart Encampment
The Okefenokee, Chara/Pacifica III,
Federated Commonwealth,
May 24th, 3049

Clink, clink, clink,clank,clink-clinkity-clack.

"Stupid's funking can." Thom growled while he fiddled with the tin ration can, with all his attempts at opening it with the tiny can opener failing miserably. With a snarl of disgust he slammed it down upon the mossy log he was sitting on and glared at it with a withering look.

"Maybe you should try using a vibroknife cuz-" Thom cut him off, "Oh shut up!" Markus chuckled while deftly plucking up the can of beef burgundy and proceeded without a problem to peel back the top of the can with his own foldout opener. With a sniff and a shudder the burly tech sat the can back down on the log next to Thom.

"Tanks." the young Warlockian offered while taking up the tin and prodding the thick congealed layer of grease with a boney finger. "You's know, I tink dis is left over's from da Fourth War." He then gave his own shudder and with slumping shoulders looked over the mercenary encampment.

The 'encampment' was exactly that, a camp comprising of a score of bio-tents strewn about the relatively dry ground of the marshland. Several logs lay tossed about in a haphazard pattern around the clearing and mercenaries huddled together about in their own cliques while the 'Cook,' an ancient mountain of man, named Shusta turned a massive python about on a spit over the fire.

Thom turned to ask his cousin a question about the old Lyran cook when his 'Uncle Po' roared out to the boys.

"Hey you boys are missing out on some good Boa." Shouted the old Tikonovian tank commander as he stuttered stepped on up to the boys, as he neared he quacked like a duck and stopped to hack a thick wad of phlem out and hiked up his leg to let out a neigh earthshattering fart. Chuckling he forced two plates of spitted serpent meat and rice into the boy's hands. He then took a seat by his son as the two began to pick away at the food. The three then sat there in silence with the only sounds being the muttering from the other groups and the crackling of the fire.

"К нашему честь мертвых!" Suddenly roared out a old grim looking tanker from where he stood atop of one of the Po MBT parked on the outskirts of the camp. The cry was quickly followed and joined by many of the others in serveal different languages and dialects with many of the mercs hoisting bottles in salute to the cry.

"To's our honored dead?" he looked to his 'Uncle' for enlightenment, "What da funk dey shouting for, Unck?" Thom asked.

"Thom my boy, today is a special day for the Blackhearts. It marks the anniversary of the raid on Midale. I know you're new to our deranged little family, Thom, so I'll enlighten you." The old tredhead then fished a flask out from with his leather vest and took a long pull from it. He then let out a weary sigh.

"It all started in the Capellan March back in '35..."
******************************

Roughly half an hour later the fire had grown low. The embers glow gave proper lighting as the elder Spiros whispered the tale out to those that huddled around the fire listened to the tale transfixed like small children at story time. As Thom handed off the bottle of Țuică that had been floating amongst the campsite to his cousin, Markus, he couldn't help but notice that the ember's glow had the effect of making Po's face seem otherworldly.

Continuing on the ancient tred-head recited everything that happened up to the docking on Kimball Station, Barlow's purging and neigh penal colony discipline, his own pranking's. He then monologue on about the details of how the unit inched it's way towards their destination through the inky black of barely inhabited star systems. Of how on the eve of their jump their commander dropped a bombshell that they'd be going into battle wearing the colors of the 1st Taurian Lancers.
***************************************************
OOC: Okay folks we're on. Yes, you're dropping in wearing the ugly brick red of the Taurian Concordant. It comes as a surprise to all of you but it's what happens. Po is actually on a different dropship so he doesn't go into all the details about what happens with you folks.

Your force drops in a triangular pattern before dispersing to head off onto your own objectives. Your objective is what has been dubbed 'Cacti City' it's a decent sized sprawling city of around 450K-500K citizens.

The area is largely agricultural in nature, but there are elements of an industrial nature, mostly oil based industry as well as manufacturing of civilian nature. You job is to drop in, smash the local defenders, and shoot up the place. Thus causing chaos and discord among the nearby worlds that use Midale as their breadbasket.

You'll be touching down roughly thirty miles South of the target. About 20 miles to Cacti City's North is a low mountain range, as well as a large mountain range around 60 miles to the West of the city. To the South and East are large rocky plains of red rock that the local cacti thrives in. The cacti is grown, harvested, processed, all in the city.

Your planned approach is up through the Nrek River floodplain. The river is shallow maybe 2-3 meters at it's deepest and 30 meters at it's widest. For the most part there are no bridges until you near the town, but they become more and more frequent as you near.

Local defenders are the local CMM back up by some mercenary elements. Intel suggest that there should be no more than two mixed companies of defenders.
***************************************************************
Drop ship Isabella Rae
15, April 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

The com-link cracked with a hiss, breaking the serene silence of the cockpit with a hard screech and further annoyed the already irate MechWarrior.

"This is your captain speaking-" Began the Captain before the mechwarrior bagan his own monotone over his speech "Great, here we go again." Peter remarked bitterly while rolling his eyes, and continued leafing through the three month old copy of Soldier of Fortune. He tried to ignore the Captain's boring near up to the minute update status on atmospheric conditions and local time, which he really didn't care about, and tried to continue reading the article on Grayson "Death" Carlye, famous MechWarrior and prime example of a successful mercenary. Everything Peter hoped to one day be.

"We are approaching final descent over Clevestown. The local time is" "Just get to the point already!" Peter demanded, as he slammed his fist into his mech's armrest, crumpling the magazines pages and putting a large crease over a picture on Carlye posed in front of his Marauder. Thankfully, the cockpit was sealed, pressurized, and nobody saw his angry outburst. A miffed Peter held his breath and gave himself a few seconds to cool off while the captain finished his monologue. "We will be touching down on the outskirts of Clevestown in thirty. Out." The mic popped and once again there was blessed silence.

"Long winded m0r0n." Peter mused dryly.


Strapped inside the cockpit of his mech, he felt invincible, untouchable, but incredibly bored. The closed comm link shared with his company popped and he heard the voice of someone trying to mimic the whiny voice of a child's, "Are we there yet?"

"Can the chatter!" Peter managed to order while stifling a laugh. Po that crazy *******. He must have said it, he never met anyone quite like the grizzled old tank commander, he always seemed happy and was constantly cracking jokes. Personally he thought Po was too much of a happy camper to be a seasoned soldier....

"You should be busy running system preps and making sure all weapons are armed and ready to go. We're going in hot!!"

Following his own advice he methodically stabbed a meaty finger away at a whole series of buttons on his command console. With a final push he prompted his battle computer to start running a diagnostic, again, for the umpteenth time since mounting up three hours prior. The powerful computer clicked away as it cycled through multiple scans on the mechs various systems. He tossed the mag onto the floor and eyeballed the techs swarming around the darkened mechbay, hustling to complete last minute task.

A group labored with touching up the paint jobs on several tanks, the brick red paint filling the bay with a noxious haze that caused most of the soldiers to seal themselves away in their cockpits and/or crew compartments. As lieutenant the techs took care of him first, but looking out the canopy Peter could tell his paint job was as half assed job as could be done, paint dripped and ran down his mech's armor before drizzling down to the floor below.

Personally, Peter didn't care for the deception that his unit was trying to deploy with the paint, though he couldn't argue with the wisdom behind it. It just didn't seem honorable to him. "But hopefully it'll work." Peter thought aloud, he didn't like the idea of Hanse Davion or Mogan Hasek-Davion screaming for blood while loosing their legions them, he shivered, with the horrors of the 4Th Succession War still fresh in his mind.

The computer's beeped snapping him out of his dark train of thoughts. He was thankful from the distraction as he sagged back down in his chair and checked out the scans results. Particle cannons online, medium lasers, good, small lasers, check, short range missiles, good, coolant levels, good. A summary of all the back up and secondary systems also checked out good. Peter smiled wickedly. "I pity the fool who gets in my way."

[cmopatrick]

Drop ship Crimson King
15, April 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

Finally. We've been two months in this rusty old death trap; finally, we are done with the prep and headed for planet-fall. About stinking time. And lest you think I jest, just think back on the last time you were in a Union sardine can for any length of time. Yeah. Just like that.

I'm seated in my Osprey OSP-16C; I've done so many sims with the PPC and medium lasers that I swear I know them better than my own fingers and toes. Aunt Ellie may have the reputation of being quiet with everyone else, but she has been a harsh task master with me. She and I are still attached to the CCAF, though not formally right now, and though she is technically just my crew-chief, my dear father made sure she outranked me by several grades before he sent us to Outreach to join this little band. I would swear she was sent along to make me work. Honestly, I guess I needed it, but it sure isn't the lifestyle most of the others seem to know.

On the other hand, I'm a bit more sure of myself in this craft than I was two months ago. Ok, I haven't taken it out for a real spin yet, but I think it won't be all that different now. Now truth in storytelling, I wasn't all that great to start with in my old Raven, with just one 'Mech kill to show for my few years as pilot... and... well, in all honesty, that one was a group kill anyway.

Oddly enough, this cockpit has become my one refuge: I sleep in the same command couch that my body occupies right now. Heck, even the smell of stale sweat and body odor are at least my own. How Aunt Ellie can stand the cramped bunk areas that now reek of armpits, passed gas, and vomit is completely beyond me.

Chief Ellie and another tech are finishing a brick red paint job on the left arm that matches what is being slapped on every other 'Mech in the tiny bay. I guess mercenaries do whatever they must to achieve an edge; if it was important for me to know why, they would have told me. Shadow's Raven is almost directly across the bay from me, the other six join us in a ring broken only by the egress door.

The retaining jaws both restrain the crouched Osprey and pass on every tooth rattling, pain inducing, nausea churning 'WHAM!' the reentry tosses our way. I could come to hate this.
WHAM!!!
Correction, I already hate this.

“Shen, are you alive up there?”
“Yes, Chief Lu.”
“Don't you roll your eyes when you talk to me.”
“I have my visor down and you are on the deck talking through the crew-chief connection... how can you think I would have rolled my eyes at you?”
“Ah HA! You do not deny it! Show me the respect I deserve or I will make your life even more miserable!”
It makes no sense to argue with her, “Yes, Chief Lu.”
“Have you finished your checklist?”
“Yes, Chief Lu.”
“Do not sas back to me, boy.”
“No, Ma'am.”
“Shen.”
“Yes, Ma'am?”
“Shen, I want you to promise me something,” her tone changes, I'm not sure what to make of it, “Promise me that you will live to fight another day.”
“Aunt Ellie?”
“Yes, Shen,” she sounds almost motherly. “This is not an order from your commanding officer, but a request from me to you: no heroic suicidal charges into fire, okay? Use your head and remember your Sun Tzu. Okay?”
I let a little warmth creep into my voice, too, “Yes, Auntie.”
“Thank you, Shen. Just don't you let anyone hear you call me that.” Ah, back to her usual self so quickly.
“Yes, Chief Lu.”
I hear her laugh just before she disconnects her headset and closes the access panel on my 'Mech's left leg.

I guess I don't see how there is much danger of me running into much fire, at least not if the intel is right. It should be right... right?

(edit for paragraph spacing)

Edited by cmopatrick, 14 December 2013 - 08:34 PM.

[Shagohad]

It was small. That was the immediate issue right now as they were just about to enter battle. He was too preoccupied making prayers to made-up gods in order to care about what they were painting on Wicker Man. The point was that this wasn't going to be enough to see him out: A Firestarter.

He remembered poking fun at them with his lancemates, calling them stupid names like Toasters, Lighters, Pyros, and Annoying. Now he sat in one. And drawing on it didn't make it any better! Oh, that's right now they were painting on his mech, ruining the design he had drawn on it to give it the look of a scarecrow. It really wasn't that great, but the head looked pants-shittingly scary if you were an infantryman. Of which there would be a few. Along with some buildings and civilians. What kind of name do you make for yourself by burning people to death on your first drop?

No! He refused! He had worked hard back in the military and a Firestarter was very different from a Centurion, but he still had to get used to unfamiliar equipment and make some mistakes. A lot of mistakes. To make a long story short, he missed his Victor. "Should have just stole the stupid thing," He muttered to himself.

A quick jolt made him aware of how far they'd been along(And that he spaced out half way through the mission brief) and he began his final checks. In the moments between actions he looked about the cockpit, noting the two rather expensive looking heavies and the Hatchetman beside him. Alex? Was that his name? He wasn't so sure. Everyone looked grizzly and badass and could all be mistook for one another. He also never got around to getting to them. This guy seemed to know what he was doing if he had such a specialized mech, so Jake decided to try and stick with him when he could during this operation. Safety in numbers, and size, had always been the Lyran doctrine so you may as well stick to it.

"Shagohad cleared for operation and ready for orders, over," He reported as the last light turned green, the techs scurrying away from the active war machine. Albeit a small one.

He went back to worrying about the mission, withdrawing into his happy place as he waited for the ship to hit the ground.

[dal10]

Drop ship Crimson King
15, April 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

It had been a long several months aboard the Crimson king. Union dropships were never spacious, but the ship had seemed to have its own brand of claustrophobia. It heartened Kasuga to be out of the ship soon. The drop ship was mere minutes away from hitting the atmosphere. Everyone was anxious, both to be off this damn ship, and to get the battle they had spent months preparing for started.

The Colonel had made a surprise announcement the eve of the jump to the planet Midale. Instead of going in as an official merc unit, they would be running the colors and IFFs of the 1st Taurian Lancers. The techs had been frantically been trying to get the paint applied, and were finishing up as they spoke. Luckily for her, her panther had been one of the first ones to receive the paint and had dried. It was almost pure rust red, with white highlights and her PPC being completely bone white, with a giant rooster with two bulls flanking it. While technically not camouflaged for the mission, the enemy would know that they were coming and roughly which direction they were coming from when a drop ship landed outside of town. A mech column wasn't exactly stealthy either¹.

Kasuga climbed the gantry that was surrounding Akasha, her PNT-9R Panther. At 10.5 meters, it was one of the largest light class mechs in existence, with thicker armor than some medium mechs. Its primary weapon was a Lord's Light PPC capable of taking almost two tons of armor off a mech in a mere three shots. Backing up the PPC, and covering its minimum range, was a Telos Four-Shot SRM4. Between these two weapons it had a hefty damage profile for a light mech, but making up for its solid firepower and heavy armor left the mech as slow as most heavy mechs at a measly 64.8 kph. Normally quite cramped, some previous owner of the machine had modified the cockpit of the Panther slightly, moving the back wall about half a meter farther back from its position several inches behind the pilots command seat and installing a small locker in the back of said seat. The drawback was the cockpit was less insulated to the excess of heat in the mech. If Kasuga abused the mechs heat profile, she would feel it fast².

Getting in the cockpit, she dogged it tight and proceeded to strip off all of her clothing, which in the heat of battle would only overheat her body even more. Then she donned her cooling vest, the mass of tubes and ballistic material that would keep her from passing out from heatstroke mid battle, and after checking the mech's seats for tacks, stashed her clothes in the locker with her tonfa, sunk down into the seat. Unlike most mechwarriors, she actually enjoyed the feel of the cloth that covered the seat. Once seated she commenced the final pre-activation diagnostic, which since the mech hadn't so much as fully powered up since it got loaded on the Crimson king months earlier, and it came up with everything green as she thought it would.

Punching a seventeen digit code into the small keypad hidden under a cover on the right side of the cockpit, Kasuga brought the mech up to standby mode, prompting the Mech's security system to bring up a scene from an absolutely ancient TV show she had found in her oyabun's library.

"Where the hell is alucard?" asked a british woman in an angry voice.
"I killed him." Kasuga replied in a really fake irish accent.
"Killed him?"
"I cut off his bloody head"
"Oh, that is step one, what about two through ten?
"Ah Christ."
Then a new deeper male voice just said "You dun goofed" as CONTROL IS YOURS flashed across the screen³.

With that she connected her five-point crash harness, and settled down as the Crimson King hit the atmosphere.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

1: Considering how rag tag this unit is so far i doubt anyone would even care about a bit of personalization. She also applied the highlights herself.
2: Artistic license, that is all
3: Hellsing Ultimate Abridged is hilarious, and the odds of anyone figuring out that password ever is simply nil.

[kevin roshak]

Blackheart Encampment
The Okefenokee, Chara/Pacifica III,
Federated Commonwealth,
May 24th, 3049

Alexei smirked as he heard Uncle Po begin to tell the history of the Blackhearts. He lived it, he knew, it felt just like yesterday. Nearly fifteen years of service and hearing Po retell the story never got old...

____________________________________________________________________________

Drop ship Crimson King
15, April 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

Alexei began the climb up the ladder to his Hatchetman, inside the cramped Overlord mech bay gantry. He watched as his lancemates climbed into their mechs as well. As Alexei slid into the Hatchetman, "Ubiytsa (killer, slayer, murderer, assassin, gunman, basher)", command chair he began the start up sequence.
"Verify ID" came a metallic female voice prompted.
"Alexei Predatel Aleksandrov" he responded, and placed his arm into the scanner in the command console. The biometrics scan began and finished in less than a few seconds.

"Reactor Online, Sensors Online, Weapons Online, All Systems Nominal" the female voice once again spoke, and Alexei gave a sigh of relief.

Only a few more minutes and he would be ground side, and while not being in the Tikonov First Republican colors of Red and Black if felt good to be back in a mech after 6 months of inactivity.

A voice came across the comms, the Crimson Kings captain, "We will be begining reentry soon, so get you **** together."

Reentry was goiing to rough, Alexei knew, but that wouldnt be the hardest part. Alexei Aleksandrov knew he should feel anxious, yet he felt as if he was watching paint dry, just waiting for time to pass. Maybe then he would feel it, the thrill of battle. He hadn't felt it in years, after the first sim, the thrill was no longer there.

[Rick Bassman]

Dropship Crimson King
15, April 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns


Slam! The spherical form of the Union Class Dropship lurched heavily as it began to enter the planet Midale's atmosphere. Technicians had just finished stenciling a silver star surrounded by laurel leaves onto Madri's left shoulder and scurried away toward more secure locales within the cavernous spacecraft. Madri was a 50 ton Trebuchet 5-J battlemech manufactured in the Free Worlds League. She was named for the princess of Madra from the Mahabharata and was a sleek humanoid machine for her 12 meters of height. She was slender with curves in all the right places boasting an armament of a pretty hefty long range missile launcher complimented by a trio of lasers. Jam Blando , the mech's pilot, was strapped into the leather-like substance that upholstered his command couch was quickly scanning systems check reports on a secondary screen. Apparently a medium laser convergence malfunction had been addressed and a patch had been installed since last start up.

Blando took stock of the other mechs assigned to the current drop. A new model, a Hatchetman that loomed to his left lofting its formidable namesake over the mech bay. What had to be a heavily modified and ancient Osprey mech and a Wolverine were among his assigned lance-mates. All had been painted brick red and had the emblem of the Concordat Jaegers which only seemed odd due to the fact that the name of the unit he had supposedly signed up with was called the Black Arrows. A job's a job. At least here I'm not killing my cousins, like Arjuna in the Gita. No lessons from a learned teacher would be given at the onset this battle. This mission would not warrant such grandiose displays for it seemed apparent that they were here for a little eco-terrorism and general mayhem. The usual. Hopefully it doesn't get too out of hand and everyone makes it back alive.

Jam rode out the bucking of the dropship as the Crimson King fought against Midale's atmospheric pressure and field of gravity to make a safe landing by reviewing mission maps and objectives downloaded from the logistics server. Minutes seemed to drag through hours as Jam retraced his path to this moment in his life; his training at the local war college, his enlistment and deployment with the Fifth Andurien Rangers, his brief yet successful arena career. They could all be traced in a line now to this moment just as this ship he was on made it's vector toward the LZ. What effort of political power play were they getting paid to be the pawns for, he wondered while their trajectory took them down toward the farms and oil fields below.




Onyx Room Arena
11 December, 3034
Montenegro District, Solaris City
Solaris VII, Lyran Commonwealth


3... 2... 1... "All systems nominal," Betty's all too familiar coo chimed deep in Jameson "Jam Blando" Blandonowitz's consciousness through the inextricable link to his mind provided by the neurohelmet. Immediately throttling up his Trebuchet, Madri, for cover in an attempt to get a lock on his opponent, Aldous Frey, a mechwarrior from the Lyran Commonwealth, and his Enforcer. The Enforcer was a slightly slower beast than the Treb, but loaded down with more armor and a more powerful weapons array at medium range. The best he could do would be to keep Aldo at range and pelt him with LRMs until he ran out of ammo and finish him off with his lasers. No doubt Aldo was going to try a close some range and let loose with his large laser and autocannon. As in all things, there can be made a compromise.

"All right, let's give the people what they want," Jam said aloud dryly as he toggled Madri's jumpjets and let off a flight of missiles toward the mech lumbering his direction almost carelessly from nearly a kilometer away. Of course, it was a ploy to get Jam to expend some valuable ammo and give away his position as Frey quickly ducked behind cover in the broken cityscape that was the Onyx Room, a class IV arena on the outskirts of Montenegro. Most the missiles harmlessly splashed the ferrocrete of the already crumbling and bedraggled building but the remainder peppered the slower Enforcer's left shoulder as Madri feathered down behind another carcass of what appeared to be an apartment building. The lock subsided, Jam turned his mech to the right and started to wheel around the Aldous' last known location. He couldn't have gotten far.

Suddenly a blue lance struck out from the perpetual night of the Onyx Room and raked Madri's chest and left arm, liquefying armor or turning it to steam wherever it touched. An AC shell slammed into the crumbled ferrorete street several meters behind the Trebuchet. Aldo was still aloft when Jam fired another volley of LRMs. The Enforcer had been able to close a bit within the cover of the arena. Again the missiles mostly tore apart an already decrepit building. This time, though, what few that took purchase, gnawed on the Enforcer's right shoulder.

Both the Trebuchet and the Enforcer were now leap-frogging over buildings and running through alley ways. One trying to keep its distance and the other attempting to close it. A lucky break. While Jam was on the decent from his most recent jump, Aldous had started his own assent over the wall of a crumbling warehouse whose roof had collapsed long ago. Jam fired another volley from his LRM launcher and this time there was no way Aldo could dodge it. The missiles caught Aldo's Enforcer just as he was landing the 50 ton machine. The force of the impact combined with the timing of the slew of high explosive missiles tearing nearly a ton of armor from the front of his machine caused Aldo to flounder for a moment.

That moment was what Jam Blando had been waiting for. Starting his Treb in a wide spiral around his flailing opponent, Jam hit a main street to the left of the warehouse and let go another round from the LRM launcher as he closed the distance between the two mechs. The Enforcer was aloft again and the familiar bark of the Federated Autocannon shot through the otherwise silent city. This time its projectile took purchase in Madri's left torso, shattering what was left of the armor in that section and exposing the internals. Jam's missiles found their airborne target just as it was descending and firing its large laser causing Aldous' aim to go wide as he lost control of his decent and fell like a 50 ton rag doll into the warehouse wall he was evidently trying to clear.

Aldous was the top seed in this match. Piloting a mech better suited for in-fighting and having already made a name for himself as a veteren of the class IV circuit. This is exactly what Jam needed right now, this was an upset. Twisting his torso in toward the left to protect his exposed torso, Jam steered Madri in a b-line to close with her prey at the end of the boulevard. The Enforcer was struggling to its feet. Apparently the fall had caused Aldo's mech some leg actuator damage. That wasn't the kind of damage Blando had hoped for. Jam had been hoping one or both of the Enforcer's powerful arm mounted weapons would have been damaged instead. This hope left him as he was running Madri at full tilt and took another autocannon round to the right arm and her legs were raked by laser fire.

Maintaining control of his mech in an all out run, Jam Blando cut down the throttle took aim on the now ragged Enforcer and opened up with three lasers of his own. Aldous lashed out with his single ruby colored laser, scoring a gouge across the Trebuchet's chest. Too close in range now to use his missiles and not willing to risk an alpha strike from the Enforcer, as that was bound to happen, Jam knew he couldn't brawl it out now with Aldo. Even though the Enforcer was damaged, it was still too much for the Treb to take down now with one blow.

As Aldous anxiously waited for his weapons to cycle and taking aim at the Trebuchet's exposed left torso, Jam toggled Madri's jumpjets. The bark of the autocannon sounded and blue light of the laser sizzled armor on the Trebuchet's leg as it ascended. The autocannon shell smashed into a building on the other side of the street. With a little careful piloting and no small degree of luck, he brought his 50 ton mech down onto the Enforcer, crumpling it to the debris scattered about the warehouse floor. Due to the damage dealt during the landing and the otherwise poor footing Madri's left leg gave out. The Trebuchet collapsed into the alrady crumbling wall.




Tiger Mountain Thirst Parlour
December 11, 3034
Montenegro District, Solaris City
Solaris VII, LyranCommonwealth


"The investors were impressed by your performance in your match today," Miike Klatt offered in between sips of scotch seated at the bar of a purposefully seedy, sparsely populated dive a couple blocks from Weedcock Stables. Miike, a man of average height, heavy set and bespectacled, came from old money and knew how to use it. He had been instrumental in setting up the stables as well as other private enterprises from the Duchy of Andurien in recent years. "Andersson won a pretty sum today with the odds being against you by so much. Look, they all know your contract with us is almost up, but they'd like to keep you on in some fashion or another."

"I don't know if I'm going to be re-upping the contract, Miike," said Jam as he took a sip of his own single-malt. "I'd kind of like to fight for something a little more substantial than my own reputation. If I'm going to fight, I'd just like it to be about something more than money anymore. Still, it's a hell of a lot better than fighting the civil war back home."

"I expected as much... Things have been going a bit down hill overall because of the Secession. I don't know if we're going to move Weedcock to the International Zone or keep it here. We'll have to see how that all plays out. However, there is still the issue of the debt you owe us for Madri. I believe it's still in the realm of 2.5 million C-bills," said Miike while taking a drag of his Free Worlds Spirit and exhaling its smoke slowly over the dark stained oaken bar.

"I should still have some time to recoup your investment. I really appreciate you helping me get set up with a mech and a place here, Miike. That was the plan, or so I thought: to get a mech and start using it to work and pay off the loans I assumed to purchase it. I thought that after the end of this short stable contract, I'd be free to join a merc corps and get you back in the next couple of years," Jam replied.

"That's what we talked about when you came here, and of course, you are. I spoke with the investors today and this is what we'd like to do in the event of you leaving at the end of the term of your contract: if we could maintain sole marketing and merchadising rights to your Solaris career to further build the franchise we'd be willing to levy the profits to your debt. Go, get some mercenary work, see the stars, but keep in consideration that there's always a place for you back here if you want it," said Miike as friendly and business like as ever.

"I'm good with that sort of arrangement," Jam said after another sip of scotch.

"Good, I've already got the paperwork started. Come by my office tomorrow and we'll get it all ironed out. I'm sorry to cut this short, but you know, Ciertia's expecting soon and would like me to around a bit more," Miike polished off what was left of his drink and the two men stood up from their bar stools.

"Yeah man, tend to your family, and congratulations. You've always been a good friend, it's good to see you prospering," said Jam as he embraced his childhood friend in parting.

Jam Blando took his seat again and indicated to the bar man to pour him another round. Taking a cigarette of his own out of his jacket's sleeve pocket and lighting it, Jam took in the quiet orchestral arrangement of synthesizers and guitars that added to the general ambience of the small bar that had become his favorite haunt this past year on Solaris.

"Excuse me," said a man to his right with a small cough to clear his throat, "You're Jameson Blandonowitz, right? I saw your match today on a livestream holovid. That was a fantastic duel! I thought it was perfect how you DFA'd that Lyran scum rat! May I buy you a drink?"

"Thank you. You can call me Jam, you are?"

"Brown, Marvin Brown," he said flashing a devilish grin. Brown was an average built man with a military bearing, piercing blue eyes and stiff, straight brown hair. He was wearing a weathered uniform that looked vaguely FWL in nature but Jam could not ascertain it's actual origins in the dark, smokey setting that was the Tiger Mountain Thirst Parlour. "I couldn't help but overhear a little of your conversation with your boss there just a short while ago. You're contract's coming up and you may be looking for a worthy mercenary company to join up with for a little while?"

"Uh, yeah. What's it to you?" Blando inquired, smoldering behind his cigarette.

"I didn't mean to be rude," Brown's chipper tone and gracious smile not at all abated, "but as it happens, I'm currently here on Solaris on recruitment detail for a small mercenary unit, the Black Arrows, now based on Outreach. We'll be going into the field in a few months and could really use someone with your kind of equipment and skills set. Listen, I've got a little office set up a couple blocks from here, if you'd be interested in stopping by tomorrow afternoon, I could fill you in on the details and arrange transportation, salary etc."

"Well, well met, Marve. I just may take you up on that drink after all. Do you like scotch?" Jam said as he drained his own tumbler of the aged dark liquor.

Edited by Rick Bassman, 16 January 2014 - 10:06 PM.

[Thom Frankfurt]

Drop ship Isabella Rae
15, April 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

[I wrote the following a few years ago. I can tell the difference from the way I write now. Can you?]

Meanwhile across the mechbay from Peter. inside the shadowy interior of a tank, Po was chuckling to himself. He was proud of his latest little prank, and felt most triumphant about it. It had recently become very hard to have some 'good ole fashioned fun' with the Taurian Kent Barlow cracking down on everything. He'd settle for messing around on the coms if need be.

Sticking his head out of the commander's hatch Po breathed in deeply, taking in the toxic fumes still lingering around the cargo bay. He relished the intoxicating stench, holding his breath till his lungs screamed for air and his blood pounded in his ears. He then smiled drunkenly at the techs milling about at the rear of his tank topping off his tanks fuel with one set mindedness. One looked up and gave him a thumbs up, which he gladly returned.

"Ah, the good life." he thought with bemused smile upon his face.

He loved the electrifying excitement in the air right before a fight, as techs scrambled to make last minute checks and preparations. He smiled as he watched a group of techs still applying paint to some tanks, while others double checked to make sure that weapon magazines were full.

Po surveyed the bay and felt dwarfed by the magnificence of all the weapons of war arranged before him, the sight was very sobering. Eight brick red tanks lay scattered around the feet of the Battle Mechs like slumbering guard dogs, while the quartet of mechs towered above all others like avatars of some forgotten war god. He paid particular interest to the tallest and heaviest of the four and wondered how his new commander was holding up.

Ducking his head back inside the armored confines of the tank, Po let out a long drawn out breath. He really liked his new commander. Good kid, even if fresh out of academy, and still wet behind the ears.

"I just hope he doesn't blow it." He thought out loud.

"Sir?" asked a confused looking gunner.

"Oh nothing Gunther." he replied, "Everything check out?"

"All systems green sir!" beamed the young tanker.

"Good" mused Po absentmindedly.

"Remember guys," he shouted down into the shadowy crew compartment, "If we mess this one up, we don't get Paid!" he banged his meaty fist against the bulkhead to emphasize the seriousness of the situation, before continuing on.

"Sure, we're only facing the local militia, and maybe even some police forces, if they got a death wish, but lets not get cocky people! Easy jobs, like this one don't come very often, so let's get in there, raise a little Hell, and get out as fast as we can, like in the plan!!!

The tough, old, tank commander chuckled to himself as he watched his crew scurry off to check and recheck all systems... He chewed on the butt of his cigar and smiled, today is gonna be a good day.
Cocooned inside the safety of their armor, soldiers made prayers to whatever gods they believed looked over them, while others filled out their last wills... God, how Po missed this feeling of plunging headlong into the maelstrom of war.
**************************************************
Dropship Crimson King
15, April 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

Aboard the King techs and crew teams likewise scrambled to do last minute checks. Like Po, Sara was also reflecting upon her newest charges and wonder how they'd perform under pressure when the Davies, began to shoot back at them. However. unlike the neigh knuckle-dragging tank commander, Sara used this time as they neared their DZ focusing on the tasks at hand and offering prayers to her ancestors to keep her and her brother, Kyle, safe during this new chapter of their lives.

No, opposition. If you forget to take them seriously they'll remind you to. She bitterly corrected herself, rubbing away at a ragged scar peeking out from under her coolant vest. A scar she received from some shrapnel courtesy of the Davion legions during the early days of the Fourth Succession War.

Trying to shove those thoughts from mind, she looked across the bay towards the Kurita girl's brick red Panther. Frowning, she flipped a switch opening her channel shared with her 'lance.' It wasn't a traditional lance per se, but having untraditional sized units was nothing unfamiliar to anyone whom served long enough in the CCAF. Especially when considering the thrashing they've received only a few years prior.

"Lance, We're thirty minutes out." She stated while looking at a timer counting down aboard her HUD. "I shouldn't have to say this, but with you greenhorns I just might. Please review battle plan 4.7, commit it to memory, for we're about to execute it. See you folks dirt side!"
*****************************************************************
OOC: 4.7 is nothing big, just the general plan that you've hatched. I just needed Sara to say something to you guys and that's what I came up with. Lame I know, right?

You'll be grounding at a small airport located only a few miles away from the previous planned spot. Spokes pointed out that it'd be good to have her and Rogue run escort but they'd need somewhere to land, so Viola! It's a small maybe 4 runway airport with several small hangers, one decent size one with the usual tower and support buildings. It's used primarily for small charter planes, crop dusters and the like. But there may be someone/something to oppose you once you land.

The Nerk River is still close by maybe only a few miles more from previous LZ.

Spokes/Rogue: During you escort run you pick up some long range 'pings' on your sensors but they quickly stop. You then hear from your dropship captain that it was fighters but they aren't heading your way. Soon after that YOUR DROPSHIP confirms that there are enemy fighters engaging the Black Joke, which was heading towards the planetary capitol, Kiew.

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 25 January 2014 - 12:49 PM.

[cmopatrick]

Drop ship Crimson King
April 15, 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

My comms come to life, "Lance, We're thirty minutes out," Shadow states. "I shouldn't have to say this, but with you greenhorns I just might. Please review battle plan 4.7, commit it to memory, for we're about to execute it. See you folks dirt side!"

Four point seven... hmmm, change in plans? I pull it up and see that the DZ will be a small airport a few klicks further from town than the original DZ. The orbital shot they gave us makes it look a bit like a rural landing strip, but there seem to be a lot of hangars...

I wonder if we are securing the airfield for our aeros... or to keep anyone else from using it from behind us as we march on Cactus City. I gotta wonder, though... won't we lose a measure of surprise if we drop in at an airfield where they have linked computers and powerful communications gear? Won't the exact composition of our unit be relayed to wherever might coordinate off-world reinforcements?

As I look at all those buildings, why do I feel like we ought to be going out the door hot?

(edit: added the favored timestamp for those of you who prefer it)

Edited by cmopatrick, 18 December 2013 - 08:56 PM.

[Sparks Murphey]

DropShip Crimson King
April 15, 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

It had been a good few years for Graeme “Lizard” Durand. Following his exile from the Federated Suns, he’d joined up with the Taurian Concordat, making a name for himself in a few profitable raids on his former home. Today, he’d be taking his Clint on another raid, this time against the world of Midale.

Well, actually, Durand was probably drilling a jump away on Illiushin, practicing his target precision and eating fine cheeses, Sasha Bibikov thought to himself, as he put the finishing touches on the stylised lizard adorning the upper right plate of his machine. He was exactly the sort of person the Davies would be expecting, though, and little touches like this would help sell the deception that they were a Taurian raiding party.

Sasha was itching to get his feet on the ground. He’d been waiting months to take this swing at the Davions. Though his patience had endured him through the long interstellar journey, now the Crimson King had almost reached Midale, it was spent. He thought back to his departure from the MAC…

Spoiler

The Minstrel’s Gutters
Card, 2nd Moon of Jonzac
Early 3035

The shrapnel and debris looked wrong. Benny had explained it before, that it was a result of the zero atmosphere that made the debris from the barrages arc so perfectly and neatly, and on an intellectual level, Sasha got that. His eyes were still astounded every time he beheld the spectacle in person, though.

As the last of the 5 shell artillery volley impacted on the crest of the ridge, Sasha signalled to his partner on this op, Ronnie “Highball” Vu-Pham in his Assassin, using his Clint’s left hand to make giant versions of infantry hand signs to prevent them unnecessarily emitting radiation. The two were moving before the dirt had finished its lazy fall to the ground, and it pattered off Sasha's canopy like a heavy rainstorm.

As they crested the ridge, Sasha got his first direct sight of the enemy he’d been stalking for the last ten minutes. Taking shelter in a sharp gorge were a BattleMaster, a JagerMech, a Grasshopper and a Centurion, waiting for the last of the artillery to die away. Each was painted in a grey-brown camo that blended with the surrounding terrain, with the lightning-and-bullet insignia of the Illician Lancers on the arm.

“Hitting targets now,” Sasha radioed, firing a quick burst of AC/5 rounds into the back of the BattleMaster. Beside him, a flight of missiles flew from the Assassin into the back of the assault. Fragments of armour flew from the machine, though it was slow to turn, so Sasha flipped open the ports on his medium lasers and added a pair of emerald beams to the mix. The Centurion was obviously paying attention, though, and whipped around, it’s autocannon barking a response. The two heavies turned to face their attackers as well.

Well, that went nicely, Sasha thought to himself, backing the Clint behind the the ridge. The JagerMech’s cannons flashed, and a pair of shells pounded against his ‘Mech’s left torso.

“Got them turning, Benny,” Sasha reported.

“Roger. Joining the dance now,” came the reply.

Highball was turning his Assassin left and Sasha joined him, the two mediums bobbing and weaving at full speed along the ridgeline. The Grasshopper still seemed a little preoccupied, so Sasha fired another burst of rounds at the larger machine. It seemed to do the trick, as the Grasshopper replied with a full salvo from it’s lasers. Most of the punch was taken out of the lasers by the long range, but the large laser scored a gash across his front armour, and his cockpit window temporarily went dark as it polarised to shield against the touch of a medium. They might not do much against his armour at this range, but they were still powerful enough to char him alive if they got into the cockpit.

“Hey, Benny, you’re aware this is a swing not a waltz, right?” Sasha jibed.

“Yeah, what are you fatsos doing over there, anyway?” Highball threw in.

“Sometimes a little slow grace is more impressive than whatever that jittery nonsense you’re up to is,” Benny shot back.

And grace it was. Benny’s Thug, accompanied close at hand by Pocket’s Warhammer, mounted the ridge on the far side of the enemy and, as if in a single action, unleashed four simultaneous PPC blasts into the back of the BattleMaster. The large machine stumbled forward, righted itself, only to be hit again by a veritable wall of SRMs. Something inside it caught, and the machine violently tore itself to pieces, one piece the pilot’s ejection seat rocketing into the black sky. Sasha wondered if the FedRat would reach orbit in this low gravity.

The formation of the remaining three Davies was falling apart, individual pilots making individual decisions about what to do and where to go next. Sasha took a parting shot at the Grasshopper, then ducked back down below the ridgeline. If they wanted him, they’d have to come and get him.

“We’re back in cover, Benny, how’s it look on your side?”

“The Jager is coming up to play. The Cent’s joining him,” Benny reported, “Looks like the ‘Hopper has decided you’re more interesting.”

“Hmph. Highball, circle north, keep an eye out for the Grasshopper. I’ll head south,” Sasha said over the direct link.

Their two machines parted, both twisted to watch the ridge. The lack of sound was unsettling; Sasha could see the flashes of fire from the nearby skirmish, along with the occasional missed shot, but the absence of atmosphere meant the only sound that reached him was transmitted distantly through the ground, and the Clint’s own footfalls mostly muffled that.

Where the blazes was this Grasshopper?

Sasha decided that he ought to crest the ridge again. He wanted to know where the Grasshopper had got to, and even if it had decided to be boring and not engage, he could at least drop some ordnance on the backs of the other Davies.

“Highball, I’m cresting again. I’ll...oh, shrimp.”

The Grasshopper was just a few dozen metres away, the woman inside it’s cockpit blister visibly recoiling from their sudden meeting. Sasha dodged the Clint to the right, twisting that way as well, and the heavy machine’s lasers glanced off his left side.

“Found the Grasshopper, on my position” he called, taking a swing at his foe’s head with his fist. The Grasshopper swatted the punch away with it’s right arm and delivered a punch with its other that slammed into his right shoulder. With the low gravity, the blow was enough to lift his 40 ton machine off the ground and throw it a dozen metres backwards. Sasha absently checked his oxygen mask; a blow like that to the head could open the cockpit to the unfriendly vacuum outside.

His autocannon barking, Sasha started a fast orbit of the Grasshopper, interspersed with little hops and turns with his jump jets to keep the Davy guessing. The Grasshopper spat back with it's medium lasers, adding a volley of missiles to the mix.

Must have them a bit rattled if they’re shooting LRMs at this range, Sasha thought, Wait... that’s not five tubes... “Highball, the Grasshopper is short range, SRMs instead of LRMs, he radioed.

"Roger, Fractal, do you want me to close or hang back and hit him?"

Another battery of lasers speared out, cutting into his ‘Mech’s left arm. Sirens went off and his battle computer informed him that he’d taken critical damage to the upper actuators. Most other chassis would be overheating after unleashing that amount of damage, but that was the thing about Grasshoppers: they packed a crazy amount of heat sinks.

He couldn’t afford to prolong the fight. “Come in close, orbit anti-clockwise. Try to chew up the right torso, with any luck she didn’t move the bin.”

“Roger.” A flight of missiles accompanied Highball’s reply, detonating against the Grasshopper’s back.

The two mediums set about a circling dance around their larger foe, repeatedly stabbing at the right torso until the yellow-hot armour sagged and dribbled like wax. For its part, the Grasshopper finished its job on Sasha’s arm, cutting it off just above the elbow. Not that he needed it, but it would be a pain to reattach. Finally, the internal structure of the Grasshopper’s right side collapsed, denying it an arm but failing to produce the ammo explosion Sasha had hoped for.

“Fractal and Highball, if you two are quite finished sightseeing, you’re welcome to join our fight any time,” Benny piped in.

“Just a second, Benny, I need to grab a photo of this lady shoving her foot up my a**,” Sasha shot back, “Highball, new plan. Take her right leg.”

This close in, it was hard to get his torso-mounted lasers to aim low enough to hit the Grasshopper’s leg, though at least it took away the temptation to overheat. The autocannon had less trouble, it’s rounds biting into the armour of the leg. Highball added his own medium laser and SRMs, though a few of the missiles went wide and nearly hit Sasha's Clint instead.

“Hey, careful there.”

“Sorry, too busy trying not to be lunch!” Highball replied.

Sasha could see the problem. The Grasshopper, apparently content with taking his arm, had decided to rededicate itself to exterminating Highball’s Assassin. The smaller ‘Mech’s frontal armour was crisscrossed with laser cuts. The other thing he could see, though, was the exposed structure of the Grasshopper's right leg, which looked far more promising.

“Timber!” he shouted, taking a running leap and planting both feet squarely on the side of the Grasshopper’s knee. It would have been a damaging enough normally, but 40 tons hitting the already weakened joint was enough to break it in two. The Clint and the Grasshopper went down in a heap.

“Leave her,” Sasha said, scrambling his ‘Mech to its feet, “She’s not going anywhere.”

Returning to the fight, it was clear that Benny and Pocket had fared well in their fight. Though Pocket’s Warhammer was looking low on armour on the front, the JagerMech’s ammunition bins were on fire (another bizarre sight in the low gravity, zero atmosphere environment) and the Centurion was struggling to hold its own against Benny’s Thug. It’s pilot must have heard about the Grasshopper’s defeat, because the Davy was trying to fallback and disengage.

“Looks like he’s running,” Benny observed, “Fractal, Highball, run him down for me, would ya?”

“No problem, Benny,” Sasha said, drawing a bead on the comparatively slow Centurion. It was moments like these he prized the Clint’s Sloane 220 Lockover targeting system. Despite being four hundred years old, and in defiance of the Clint’s otherwise less-than-sterling construction, it was a fine piece of equipment. Within moments, he had a readout on the Centurion’s damage so far: like most experienced Centurion pilots, he’d twisted and spread the damage across the side and arms, with little of it hitting the vulnerable areas over the reactor and gyro. It looked like a fairly standard build, though, and that meant the most-likely-untouched LRM ammo would be in the now exposed left torso. He aimed carefully, and fired off a series of shells...

This time it worked, and worked so spectacularly, Sasha almost felt sorry for the Davy. Almost. Rather than just exploding, the missiles seemed to ignite, spinning the ‘Mech up off its feet for a moment before pile driving it back into the dusty ground. That was when their warheads went off, scattering parts of the Centurion in a million directions, just in time for Highball’s flight of LRMs to arrive and add a final insult.

“Salvage, get some trucks over here to pick up what they can,” Benny called, “We’ve also got a prisoner, so we’ll need an air bridge and armed guards. Good work, boys.”


***


DropShip Steel Fate
Card, 2nd moon of Jonzac
Early 3035

As usual, the ‘Mechs were the last in. The salvage teams had cycled through the airlock while Sasha and the rest of his lance stood guard. In some ways, it was something of a pointless exercise: with the small radius of the moon and it’s lack of atmosphere, the DropShip would spot any approaching enemies well before they got in range, and could probably fight off anything that the BattleMechs could. Nothing came, though, and eventually Sasha was watching the external air pressure gauge climb from inside the main airlock.

The mechbay was busier than usual, the ramp rats scurrying to secure everything they could. The machines of lances One and Three were safe in their alcoves, which was odd because Three were meant to be out on a recon op scouting their next target.

“Hey, Benny,” Sasha said over the comm, “Are we expecting to go somewhere?”

“I’ll brief you in ten.” Which almost certainly meant yes.

He backed the Clint into its alcove and began powering it down, as a pair of astechs started attaching the chains that would hold the giant in place during flight. Another indicator that they were going to be underway sooner than anticipated.

Xin Alevina, his tech, was waiting for him when he stepped out onto the gantry. “Missing something?” She asked, looking meaningfully at the stump of his Clint’s left arm.

Sasha waved it off. “Nah, I know exactly where it is. See? Highball’s got it safe and sound.” He pointed across the bay to Highball’s Assassin, carrying his detached limb.

Xin grabbed the mic on her lapel. “Peter, Wei, make sure that arm Highball has got gets strapped down somewhere safe.”

“Xin, what’s going on?” Sasha asked, leaning casually against the railing, “Are we weighing anchor?”

“Officially, I don’t know. Orders came down about an hour ago that we were to make ready for flight,” Xin replied, “Unofficially, I’d say it looks like we’re going to be leaving the system.”

Sasha scowled. “Leaving? Why? Don’t tell me the Davies are sending reinforcements.”

Xin shrugged. “Don’t ask me, they don’t keep us in the loop about things like that. Looks like you're about to get your answer, though.”

Across the bay, Sergeant Sui-Hung Franklin, “Benny” to her troops, was climbing atop her Thug with a bullhorn.

“Listen up, people,” she said, her voice echoing in the metal hall. Work stopped and machines fell silent as people turned to listen. “In case some of you haven’t guessed, yes, we’re withdrawing from Jonzac. Don’t worry, we’re not expecting anyone en route to the JP.

“We’ve done a good job out here. The Illician Lancers are hurting, they’ve lost ‘Mechs, they’ve lost facilities. More importantly, they’ve lost respect, because the AFFC high command know that if they send the Lancers up against the MAC, they’ll lose. So for now at least, their threat is silenced.

“In the meantime, there’s another threat. As you may know, the Duchy of Andurien has decided they’re a big player in the Inner Sphere, and decided to tackle the CapCon. The 2nd and 4th MAC have gone over there to give them a lesson in how wrong they are. And like us, they’re winning. As they push forward, though, a certain man who likes to think himself a fox might decide that this side of the realm is undefended. Well, we’re going to camp on it and make sure he doesn’t.

“Alright, that’s all I’ve got for you for now. Dismissed!”

Sasha was already scampering down to the lower deck, taking the rungs of the ladder four at a time in the low gravity.

“Benny!” he called, dodging past a loader as he caught up to her. “Benny! This is crazy! Are we really running home right when we’ve got the FedRats on the back foot?”

“They’re aren’t all on their back foot, Fractal, just the Lancers. The rest of the Federated Suns probably doesn’t know we’re here yet,” Benny said, climbing the steps to the crew deck, “Trust me, I want to hurt the FC too. McBride? He does too. Heck, I don’t think you’ll find an officer in the MAC who’s not itching to put the hurt on them.”

“So you think this will be a temporary thing?” Sasha asked skeptically.

Benny looked him over. “Yeah. But I don’t think in the way you’re hoping. My guess, we head back to Menke for a bit, then ship out to somewhere close but a little bit back from the border, like Harloc or Relevow. Wait for the FS to be open and this thing with Andurien to die down, then hit ‘em. But it could be years, or decades.”

“And meanwhile, they sit on a third of our worlds,” Sasha added with a scowl.

“Yep. And it stinks,” Benny agreed, “But the MAC can’t do anything about that, not yet. If we tried to wrest even a single planet back, we’d get clobbered by their combined might. You really want to keep putting the hurt on Davy? Join a smaller merc group, one that can afford to do smaller raids, and hit them that way.”

“I might just do that, you know.”
“I’m not standing in your way. In fact, if you do, give ‘em a few hits for me. Just remember, you’re not going to win back Sarna like that. And the MAC will be always be waiting for you to come back.”

“Hey, dreamy, snap out of it!” his tech, Xin, said, planting a peck on his cheek. That was another thing he was adjusting to. What had started a simple colleague relationship had evolved into… something romantic. They were still busy working through finding out what it was.

Sasha clambered up to the open canopy of the Clint, pulling it down behind him. He set the already running machine through a final diagnostic check as he stripped down to shorts and vest.

“Mic check. Xin, you reading me?” he said, stowing the bundled clothes in the storage locker behind him.

“Loud and clear, Fractal. While I’ve got you on the line, there’s something I should tell you before you go out there,” came her voice over the lightweight headset.

“What’s that? That you love me?”

“Well, there’s that but I was actually thinking something else.”

“Ah, you’re pregnant!” he said, pulling on the bulky neurohelmet, “Nice try, but you got me with that a month ago. I’ll not be fooled again.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Now you’re just being silent to make me second guess myself,” Sasha added.

“Sooo, when I pranked you, and claimed I was pregnant? Yeah, it turns out nature was having it’s own joke on me. We’re actually having a kid.”

“What? Why? How?...”

“If you need those explained, I have to wonder what you thought we’ve been doing these past few weeks,” Xin remarked.

“No, I mean...how has this only come up NOW, of all times?” Sasha exclaimed.

“I… thought you should know before you went into combat. You should know you’re fighting for more than just our bread and butter,” she said, “This kid’ll need a cot, and diapers, and those little jars of purée…”

“You couldn’t have told me a week ago? We could have left you safely on the JumpShip!”

“Hey, I’m pregnant, not disabled. Besides, I want you to come back from Midale, and how would that happen if I left you in the hands of someone else?”

“Well, I guess it explains your mad cravings for prawns, at least.”

There was another silence, broken only by the howling winds buffeting the DropShip.

“I wonder if the captain is too busy to get us hitched,” Sasha mused.

“Sasha, we’re in the middle of a combat drop, I think he’s got other things on his mind,” Xin replied, amusement evident in her voice.

“Didn’t stop you,” Sasha shot back mischievously as the last of the diagnostics came back clear and he switched to the lance frequency, “Lance, this is Fractal, sound off.”

[Shagohad]

DropShip Crimson King
April 15, 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

Jake casually flipped through the update, skimming and scanning for key words. Civilians, city, and burning were not there! His arms shot up in victory, fists hitting his ejection door. "Owie!" He said loudly, face trying in vain to maintain the happy look on his face.

Jake had never trusted mercs as far as he could throw them, which wasn't very far. They had this habit of pirating, pillaging, and then doing it for the other guy. Taking a seat back in his command couch, he looked back at the larger machines standing about the dropship. For that moment his eyes refused to shut, wavering as they tracked from one mech to the other.

The transition was surreal, a small haze and these dark stars skipping across his vision. The hull of the dropship melted a cool red, the brittle metal groaning and shrieking as it stubbornly held. Violently it burst outside, taking with it everything and everyone not bolted down. Then there was spinning, a planet turning and rolling beyond the breach. SO many explosions outside, so many streaks of light and dark. It was the end and he was in the middle of it.

Must get out! Must...get...out... There was a jolt and he blinked, hand just a few inches from the ejection handle. Immediately his head was full of questions and curses. He plopped down into the couch, hand thrust into his coolant vest where it rummaged about. Two small cases were extracted and laid on the flatter parts of the dashboard.

Jake glanced outside, hoping no one would notice him pulling off his neurohelmet to enjoy what he had pulled out.. Working the contents into his lap, he leaned forward and began his task. After a few minutes of tapping, measuring, aligning and rolling, he held up the flawless joint and hid away his containers.

The last touch was an old tin lighter, the Ryder family seal stamped boldly into its sides with the Steiner Fist at the top. Setting the joint between his lips, Jake flicked the lighter open with the other hand and gave the end a good roasting. A blissful sigh came with his inhale and he held, eyes turning back to the dropship's hold.

"Don't worry guys," He mumbled softly, smoke pluming out into his cockpit, "This shouldn't be a problem..." His eyes then went to the hull, hoping that it wouldn't be a window to a nightmare again.

[Spokes]

Fighter Bay Two
Union Class Dropship Crimson King
Deorbit Approach Vector, Midale
Capellan March, Federated Suns
15 April, 3035 -- [ Planetfall - 00:00:24:00 ]

"Attention all decks, secure for immediate gravity change. Atmospheric interface in sixty seconds. . .mark."

A long, low rumble echoed through the fighter bay, the hull groaning from the strain as the engines labored to cut the ship's forward velocity. Chāo sat in the dimly illuminated cockpit, her bulky flight suit sinking into the control seat as her weight neatly doubled from the force of the deorbit burn. The telemetry feed on the Thrush's display showed the other two Dropships pulling away as the Crimson King descended tail first towards the planet below. Out in the empty void beyond the armored hull the Black Joke and Isabella Rae continued on towards their assigned targets. One of the lights on the comm panel came on and the speaker inside the sealed helmet came to life.

"King Flight, this is the XO. Attention to orders. Crimson King has broken formation and is on powered descent towards the Sundale operational area. Our target landing zone is a small civilian airfield roughly 50 kilometers south of Sundale. Your NAV systems have been updated with the coordinates. We estimate planetfall in two zero minutes. Your orders are to clear the King's descent corridor of any and all aircraft, repeat, any and all aircraft. Once our flight path is secured, you are authorized to shift to a ground support role. King One, callsign 'Aegis', you are directed to strike ground targets of opportunity with priority given to any communications or sensing equipment in the immediate area of the air field. King Two, callsign 'Shrike', you will provide high level cover for King One." The Dropship began to shake as it encountered the upper edge of Midale's atmosphere. "Transferring you to your bay operator for separation procedures. Good hunting King Flight, XO out."

The Thrush began rocking slightly in its cradle, but the turbulence was mild and Chāo was able to start her checklist without any difficulty. The King's powered descent was sparing them the crushing deceleration and fiery wake of an unpowered atmospheric reentry. The sound of a man clearing his throat filled her helmet, followed by the calm voice of her technician. "Make ready for separation maneuver." Chāo looked out through the canopy, could see Kin looking back at her through the reinforced viewport that separated the small ready locker from the fighter bay. For a fleeting moment, she wondered how he had managed to talk his way past the crewman that would have normally seen to this. The thought was quickly pushed aside as Kin stepped through the pre-flight checklist.

"Power systems?" --- "Switch to standby. Computer throttle control armed."

"Flight suit connection?" --- "Suit levels in range."

"Avionics?" --- "Check okay."

"Weapons subsystem?" --- "Switch to safe. Master arm, off."

"Cooling systems?" --- Chāo checked the diagnostics panel, frowned at the amber light, reached out and hammered the console with an open palm, the thick glove of the pressure suit soaking most of the blow. The light flickered green.

"Cooling systems check okay." She could feel Kin's gaze, looked over at the impassive face, the silent reproach. The bulky pressure suit swallowed her shrug but she knew her former teacher had seen it, just as she caught the imperceptible shake of his head. Kin had been a fixture in her life long before she'd learned to fly, almost before she'd learned to walk. Chāo turned back to the controls, flushed crimson in the privacy of her helmet. "Cooling systems check okay."

"Fighter umbilical?" Chāo reached over and hit a switch on the console. There was a soft thump from somewhere underneath the fuselage. Several lights on the console winked from green to red and then back again, and the telemetry feed from the Dropship froze momentarily and then cut off.

"Umbilical cleared. Internal power confirmed." She checked a gauge. "Oxygen levels holding."

And that was that. Chāo and Kin locked eyes through the helmet, the Thrush's canopy and the window on the ready room. Kin's voice on the radio, "CIC, Fighter Two. Pre-flight check complete." Warning klaxons sounded in the bay-- Kin nodded at her once, his face disappearing from view as an armored panel slid down over the viewport. There was a rushing noise from the other side of the canopy, the klaxons fading as most of the air bled from the compartment. The bay was dark, almost silent now. Chāo flexed her gloved hands, left moving to the throttle, right to the side mounted control stick. Nothing happened as she slid the throttle all the way forward.

"King Flight, standby for separation in ten. . .nine. . .eight. . ." There was a shriek of metal and the bay door shuddered open. Stars, the curvature of the horizon, the black of near-space, the hell-fire glow of the Dropship's engines, all of it right there, scant meters from the pilot's seat, giving the impression of teetering at the edge of an impossibly tall cliff. Chāo settled back into the seat, not the least bit fazed by the view, spent the next few seconds trying to work a stray bit of breakfast out from between her teeth.

". . .five. . .four. . .three. . ."

The flight computer sounded an electronic tone. The interceptor shuddered as the reactor energized the thruster system.

"two. . .one. . ."

Another tone, immediately swallowed by the metallic thunder of the locking clamps blowing away from the Thrush's wings.

The final tone was completely lost in the controlled violence of the launch sequence. The catapult mechanism attached to the fighter cradle spat the TR-7 clear of the bay in less than a second, followed a tenth of a second later by the computer controlled ignition of the Thrush's engine. Lacking sufficient air speed for aerodynamic lift, the fighter dropped nearly twenty meters before it surged into the column of super-heated air roiling away from the Crimson King's thrusters. Chāo fought the controls, eased her fighter into a lazy turn, a long, slow spiral that allowed her to take advantage of the convective lift of the heated air left in the Dropship's wake. The Thrush bucked in the unstable air, the fighter starting to twist starboard. Chāo corrected, face a mask of concentration, the brief flare of maneuvering thrusters casting odd shadows in the cockpit. The fighter stabilized. Chāo looked out through the canopy, instantly sighted the Dropship, found the drive flare of her wingman a few seconds later.

"King One has clean separation. Scope is clear, no contacts. Beginning descent."

Chāo keyed her own radio. "King Two, clean separation. No contacts. Forming up for descent."

The raid on Midale had begun.

[GLIZZY GULPER]

Dropship Crimson King
April 15, 3025
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

Xavier sat firmly in the cockpit of his Commando, taking a good look around at the control panels around him. The timeframe before every mission always brought some sort of anxiety to his mind, worrying if he'd make it out alive or not. It was even that way when he served in the military, where he'd always ponder the outcome.

Of course, his friendly fire incident came to mind whenever he thought of his military service, as he recalled what it felt like to get tossed around by an AC/20 round, the vivid memories of it coming back to him. It had been replayed many times before in his head, and he'd always remember the sounds the mech made as it came into contact with the ground.

Xavier snapped back to reality, where he realized he had begun to sweat. Looking around, he grabbed a handkerchief and slipped his helmet off, wiping his brow and taking a deep breath. He then leaned back in his seat, stuffing the cloth into a vest pocket and reaching for a nearby bottle, which he took a somewhat long drink out of. Afterwards, he let out a sigh and sealed the container, stuffing it away by his legs. Not the greatest practice, he thought as he pulled his helmet over and slipped it on, but it did the job.

The voice came on again over the intercom, signaling that the dropship was nearly at its destination.

"No big deal," he thought again, taking deep breaths, "Just do what you always do."

He rubbed his left arm, which still felt a bit numb. But, all that training done those years ago in a Commando just like this one should pay off, and now of all times would be a good place for it. He flipped a series of switches.

"Reactor, online. Sensors, online. Weapons, online. All systems, nominal." the computer said.

He scanned the panels. Everything seemed to be working fine, the laser was running normally and he had enough missiles to ward off some attackers. He checked his systems time and time again, just to reassure himself that everything would be okay, but the anxiety still lingered in the back of his mind.

Peering over, he skimmed through the latest update and tried his best to remember it, although he felt that he'd forget it all in the thick of it. Now ready, he pressed the comms on and spoke.

"High Roller here, all systems are go."

Edited by TalRavis, 01 January 2014 - 08:34 PM.

[SethAbercromby]

Dropship Crimson King
April 15, 3025
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

Aravind stared at the screen on his cockpit in silence. The Text on the screen simply read <<Systems Standby>> The mission briefing had left a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted to shout, curse, hit something but his mind stayed too foggy to do any of those things. He had spend 9 years protecting his planet from exactly what he was ordered to do to this one. The silence of his cockpit was disrupted by the captain announcing the eta for touchdown. It reeled him just enough back into reality to get a hold of himself.

"You're here because you wanted to. Nobody forced you do this now act like it." He disciplined himself, making sure he didn't accidentally open the comm-line. He took a few deep breaths and then directed his voice to the computer. "Sam, wake up."

A soft buzz of the electronic systems booting up filled the cockpit, completely erasing the silence. The former message disappeared from the screen and was replaced by small diagnostic text as the systems activated one by one. The more he guided his 'Mech through the boot sequence, the clearer his though got and the faster did his hands move from one switch to the next. <<All Systems Ready>> the voice declared, finalizing the sequence. Aravind pressed a short sequence of buttons to activate the diagnostic mode and then leaned back into his pilot seat to watch the computer do the rest.

He still didn't like what he was going to do but he knew better than to wallow in self-pity. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment to rest his mind and to calm himself before the storm. This would be a long day after all.

[The Shepherd]

DropShip Crimson King
April 15, 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

“NOT THE FACE!”

The astech fumbled his spray-gun, watching in horror-induced slow motion as red paint washed over the side of Brawlin’ Badger’s cockpit glass.
Even through the thick transpex, the pilot’s feral roar could be heard as she clambered up to the top hatch of her Wolverine. Backing off the glacis plate and overbalancing out of pure fear, the unfortunate man almost stepped back into empty space. Frantically clawing at his tether line, he pulled himself back in. He regretted doing so immediately.

“What in tarnation yah doin’ to her face!?!”
The furious mechwarrior’s head, protruding from the hatch, was a perfect replication of the now partially obscured snarling badger’s face painted onto the side of the mech’s cockpit and Magna Mk II Medium laser cowling.

“Uh…wehe...” the burly tech-head’s voice cracked as he hung out as far away from her as possible, “Ahmm… we’s got orders to paint all of the mech’s up like Taurian Lancers. Gotta do the whole mech.”

“We’re settin’ to scare the baby-jesus lovin’ pants off o’ them Davvies right?”

“Uh.. I think that’s the idea.” the tech offered, fear thrown away by confusion at the sudden question.

“Well you hang right there and tell me what’s scarier than a bright red mech with a whoppin’ great growler on top?”

Watching the smoldering Sierran begin to climb up and out, the tech gained an appreciation for her point. He chuckled dimly despite himself at the irony, thinking himself clever.

“Find somethin’ funny?” She had nimbly hopped down in front of him and turned to inspect the thin smear over her viewport. The distinctive upward twang of her southwestern accent made it sound like a harmless question.

It wasn’t.

The tech was about to chuckle like a neanderthal again and point out the joke when his mind caught up to his eyes. Turning back toward him now, sporting that same fearsome expression, Cassandra “Momma Bear” Brocktree, or just “Momma Cass” as he’d heard the other techs refer to her, was dressed in a cooling vest, incredibly short mechwarrior shorts and a body encompassing rich brown tan. And despite her being quite short, there was, he noticed, a -lot- of body to encompass.
Remembering that he needed certain body parts attached if he wanted to have kids one day, he did his best not to oggle the woman’s chorded legs and muscle-bound upper body.

“N...No. Just you umm…” he fumbled for an excuse,”...jumped down like that without wearing a harness. It’s dangerous up here.”

Cass’s eyes narrowed.

She glanced to where the tech’s tether was attached to her mech and grasped the bungee cord, reeling him back in, holding so their faces were centimeters from each other.

“Honey-bun,” she cooed, “you have no idea.”

The tech gulped bodily.

“Orders huh?”

His brain’s gearbox didn’t enjoy the long throw... After a moment, he nodded.

“Shoot. The whole mech?”

A double-nod.

“When this here dust-up’s all over, you’re puttin’ her right back the way she was. Comprendes?”

The tech opened his mouth, but decided to just nod, his future children terrified of getting the reply wrong.

“Hmmph. Well alright then,” she said and let go, letting the tech fall a half-metre so his tether would catch him. He pinwheeled and eventually regained his footing, in time to see her climb back into the Badger’s head.

“And wipe that red muck off my windshield!”

[Sparks Murphey]

DropShip Crimson King
April 15, 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

Without warning, a light on Sasha's comm board flicked on and a channel clicked open by itself in his ear.

"Now baby-cakes, I know you're fixin' to put the hurt on them Davvies once we get dirtside, but set ol' Momma's mind at ease would ya? Tell me you ain't plannin' on settin' that there walking toaster over yonder onto any good, innocent lil' civvies' back hedges?"

"Settle, Momma Cass. The hedges, maybe, if I don't like the way they look at us. The civvies get to walk out toast free," Sasha replied. He frowned. "Wait, 'baby-cakes'? Have you been talking to Xin?"

There was a marked pause before Cass drawled suspiciously, "Now just what exactly would I be talking to Xin about then hmm?"

"Nothing," Sasha said quickly, "Just... she calls me that sometimes. That's all."

"Uhuh," there was less belief in her voice than a Free Worlds Atheist convention's opening address, "somethin' you ain't tellin' me... baby-cakes? You wouldn't be lyin' to me would ya"

"What if I am, Cass? You're not my real mom."

There was a sharp inhalation down the line before another pause, then, "and if I were?"

"Well, then either you'd be a prisoner of the state on Sarna, or I'd be a rancher in the backwoods of the Free Worlds League," he jibed back, "You're not going to let this slide, are you? Alright... Xin and I are having a bub."

Sasha's statement triggered a noise over the channel that engaged his comm system's heavy audio scrubbing. It was designed to prevent the deafening of pilots in the event of an explosion on the other end of the line. The garbled sound continued for a full five seconds before Cass's voice decreased enough in pitch and volume to be recognisable as human speech.
"-ew it! I could just tell! Oh, no wonder she's had a bounce on her step these last few days. That's just too precious! Ya thought of any names yet? Momma can help if you haven't."

"Cass, I've known for maybe five minutes now, and believe it or not, I've had other things on my mind, like the fact that there's going to be professionals shooting at me in the very near future," Sasha replied.

"Maybe Pyotr after my grandfather, if its a boy," he admitted after a moment.

"Mmm... That's a good name alright," Cass said, "Good and strong one. And don't you worry about them Davvies, Momma Bear's got your back. Now I know it'll be harder than a chargin' Ranger to avoid, but you gotta make sure irrational thoughts don't creep into your head while you're down there. Ya do something cos you're worrying about getting home in one piece and I guarantee it'll have the right opposite effect."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I've seen people mushed for being in the wrong headspace before. Don't worry, I won't let it interfere."

Sasha could hear Cass smiling over the line, "'ata boy! Now you take care of that lance 'o yours, I'll keep my eye on y'all."
There was another pause before she clicked back on, "oooh I'm soo happy for you baby-cakes. Ok. I'll clammit for now. See you dirtside!"

Silently, Sasha wondered how many more people would know before they hit dirt.

[Thom Frankfurt]

Dropship Isabella Rae
Inbound Assault Vector, Cleavestown
Midale, Fed Suns.

Up in the bridge, time was ticking by at a snail's pace, and Captain Roger Waters was bored. He had been flying this Union class dropship, the Isabella Rae, out of Kaifeng since before the Fourth Succession War, and today was just another day. Another day, another dollar. His father, Captain Malcolm and himself had just recently changed from hauling tons of produce, to the more lucrative profession of hauling soldiers and their weapons of war. At moments it was exciting, but right now wasn't one of those times.

Shoving the curious thought of wondering what balsa wood tasted like from mind, he debated on going over to his comm station and broadcasting to everyone aboard that they now had 15 minutes till they touch downed, when he looked over to comms and noticed that the coms officer there was looking his way with an worried look on his face.

"Sir!" cried out comms with a cracking voice.

God, you're 37 when are you going to reach puberty? thought the captain. 

"Well, what is it?" asked a annoyed Capt Waters. "Sir, we're receiving messages from the "Black Joke-" The Captain cut him off, "We're operating under strict comm blackouts, no external broadcast, so it better be important!" He glared over at the panicked stricken technician wondering what was so dire that the Black Joke would risk breaking silence. Whatever their reason their plight must have been dire enough to break silence, and if that was the case-...

"Sir! We got fighters on long ranged sensors. Heading outbound, bearing 215... range, Oh 190 Kilometers and growing.." Blared out Roger's sensor operator. With the sudden thought that their milk run was going to be anything but and a nervous tingling crawling up his spine, Water's whirled upon coms.

"You better get them on the horn now, or you're walking home!!!


"This is Ironclad, do you copy? repeat this is Isabella Raedo you copy? Black Joke do you copy?" The comm tech looked over at the captain with a horrified look on his face. "There's nothing, Sir. Just static, like they're gone." 

*****************************************************
Dropship Black Joke
Imbound Assault Vector, Kiew
Midale, FedSuns

"Yes Isabella Rae we read you!!" the com tech screamed into his mic to no avail. The manic franticly flicked away at toggles in seeming random patterns, desperate to broadcast to the Isabella Rae and Crimson King.
 
They were receiving the communiques from the Isabella Rae, they just could no longer communicate with them, the blister or communication equipment having been reduced to molten slag by the swarm of aerospace fighters that had constantly been harassing them after entering the atmosphere.
 
Circling the spheroid vessel like flies buzzing around a bloated corpse, the swarm of conventional and aerospace fighters blasted away at the derelict ship. Auto cannon pounded away at the 'Joke's thick plates of armor, while missiles sent more flying away in a cloud of fiery explosions.
 
"Damage control, what are the chances of getting comms or, I don't know, fire control up anytime soon? Speak to me JT." A stressed out  Capt. Francesca Burns queried with a knuckle white grip upon the armrest of her command chair.
 
"Ain't happening anytime soon ma`am." Replied an already strained chief engineer in the means of a shout, while directing the few engineers he had to problem areas from his station like an orchestrator directs his musicians.
 
"We got fires on decks three thru five, and that last pass shot up the main thruster. I don't know about you, captain, but free falling to my doom is not what I think of as a happy ending" He nodded as he spoke. "Sorry Ma'am, but we got bigger problems then not being able to shoot back or radio for help." He said matter of fact.
 
"Great." Any sort of sarcastic retort from her was cut off by the deck violently lurching underneath them.
 
The over head lights flickered for a second then died. A split-second later backup systems came online which dispelled the chaos and screams that reigned in the darkness, and bathed the bridge with a gloomy red light.
 
"DC, what's the damage?"
 
No answer.
 
"JT?" Craning her neck, Captain Burns looked over to her senior tech, who was slumped over in his chair blood flowing freely from his face.
 
"Oh, this just keeps getting better..." 
 
"Sir, the Colonel wants to know, as he put it, 'What the Hell is going on?,' The com tech said with an unsure look, referring to the Mercenary commander down in the mech bay.
 
"Tell him that everything is fine, there's no need to panic the ground pounders." She chimed.
 
Though Francesca kept telling herself that everything was indeed fine. Lightly laughing, she tried to steel her spine as if everything was indeed fine, but she couldn't shake the feeling of impeding doom like the grim specter of Death was stalking about on the bridge. Anxiously awaiting them all.
****************************************************************

Josh felt another wave of nausea wash over him as the dropship shook violently. Suffering from what was commonly known as 'Jump Sickness' Josh crumpled up the packet of meds that the units physician had given him to alive his queasy stomach, he'd already gave up on trying to pronounce the drug's name. However you worded the impossible to pronounce name, the drug wasn't working. The cockpit reeked of a mixture of stale cigarette smoke and fresh vomit.

"Alright boyos. The captain said we're encountering some light resistance from militia fighters and that it is light and not worth worrying about." The Colonel voiced over the command frequency as the decked pitched up violently again.

Doesn't feel that light to me...Josh thought morosely as the mechbay's lights flickered off for a second before clicking back on. As if to confirm his concern the mechbay's massive doors suddenly withered inward chewed up by heavy autocannon fire. Josh watched fascinated as the tortured door pulled back outward with loose debris and unsecured items were sucked out into the vacuum of the upper atmosphere.

"Bull Shrimp!" The X-Lyran warrior stabbed away at toggles with a nicotine stained finger, bringing life to the 65 ton Catapult. Control panels lit up with scrolling data and sensor readings. As he scrolled through the data, the information confirmed his fears and he became aware of slight things. How the decked was listing slightly and how the reverberations of the dropships once mighty engines were now just a meek sputter. Without a second thought the MechWarrior threw the throttle full forward breaking the Catapult out of it's clamps with a screech of tortured metal.

As the Catapult made it's first awkward up the now growing slope of the deck, the Colonel popped up on the coms again, no doubt to reassure the soldiers that everything was fine, but instead he roared out in anger as the heavy mech hurried to the withered portal with a birdlike gait.

"Where the Hell do you think you're going Walker?!"

"Anywhere but here, sir." As the 'Pult neared the twisted doorway, Walker triggered his jump jets and hopped out of the doomed ship.
****************************************************
OOC: That's right friends, the Black Joke is no more. Other than Walker everyone is pretty much a goner.

You guys land unopposed at Yokitz Field. To your West there are vast acres of almond fields and other smaller climate controlled farms. To your South more fields and beyond those hills/mountains 4K-5K ft 1219.2- 1524m. To your North there is a barren moonscape of oilfields, production rigs, some small support buildings to the 'fields' and dry warehouses servicing to pipe and metal works for that industry.

To the East there is a small town, the river and route you are to take, but there is also a very small militia armory.

Now I'm gonna let you guys get creative here... There's outdated obsolete tanks, some infantry, and other conventional units. No mechs though. And you're too far inland for any naval units.

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 25 January 2014 - 02:01 PM.

[cmopatrick]

I try to quiet my mind. We will be down soon. I'm in the command lance, not sure what our depart order is.
“Shen?” It is Aunt Ellie on the crew chief connection.
“What are you doing in the bay, Auntie? We're less than fifteen minutes from touchdown!”
“Has your captain said anything about the Black Joke?”
“No, only to ready ourselves for battle.”
“I just heard a crewman in the hall yelling at one of the woman officers... she was in the ladies bathroom and he was at the door... that the Black Joke just went down.”
My stomach tightens and I'm instantly worried that we might not make it to the ground.
Aunt Ellie continues, “Something about a heavy air to air fight. I figured you would want to know in case it affects your mission status.”
“Isn't the Colonel on that dropship?” I ask, but I know the answer.
“Yes, Shen, I believe he was.”
“Maybe they cradled out...”
“You should check.”
“Thanks. You need to get clear, if they make this a cradle drop, those doors could open in moments.”
But my aunt is already moving away from the 'Mech's leg and doesn't hear me.
“Naomi, the Captain's private channel if you please.”
“Sequence set, comm button two.”
“Captian, Shark here. I was just informed that the Black Joke may have gone down. Do you have any information on that, Ma'am?”
I wonder if the Raven pilot will even answer me.

(edit: added a line I had cut off in the cut and paste... the last one)

Edited by cmopatrick, 25 January 2014 - 08:22 PM.

[Spokes]

Sundale Operational Area, Midale
Capellan March, Federated Suns
15 April, 3035 -- [ Planetfall - 00:00:07:32 ]

"Crimson King is clear to Yokitz Field. ETA seven minutes."

"Scope is clear, no contacts. Still. Repeating sweep."

"Copy King One. Our screens are clear as well. Instrument visibility is to the horizon, no contacts."

Sensors, flight instruments, status indicators. Chāo walked her eyes over her fighter's console in a well practiced cadence as she orbited over the descending Dropship. Her wingman was well below her now, prowling through an empty night sky for targets that were not there. The voices on the radio were heavy with boredom as she started her eyes back across the display.

"Hey, you two still awake out there? There's a rumor going 'round says Bibikov forgot to set his safeties on his last stroll through the technicians' quarters."

Chāo grinned behind the faceplate on her helmet, keyed her radio, said something in Chinese that brought a guffaw from the radio operator.

"I hear that. Anything going on up there King Two?"

"Negative, everything is quiet."

"Copy King Two. Don't forget to call home if something interesting hap. . ." There was a soft rattle on the line, a brief pause. The voice of Captain Wimms brought Chāo's posture immediately erect.

"King Two this is Crimson King Actual. Priority One, you are to break formation, return to altitude three zero kilometers and establish radio contact with the Black Joke. Report status immediately upon acquisition of signal. Acknowledge and execute."

She swallowed hard-- that wasn't good. "Acknowledged King Actual, five by five. King Two out." The radio went quiet. The line was open, same as before, but suddenly no one seemed interested in speaking.

Chāo pulled back on the control stick and set her Thrush into a near vertical climb, sinking back into the control seat as the interceptor powered its way back up into the black of near space.

[Sparks Murphey]

Yokitz Field
April 15, 3035
Midale, Capellan March
Federated Suns

The Andoran JJII jump jets scorched the packed earth, and then Sasha Bibikov’s Clint touched enemy soil. The aerial drop wasn’t ideal, but until they figured out what had happened to the Black Joke, they had to assume the enemy knew they were coming, and that meant getting a scout lance on the ground as soon as they could. Behind him, the forms of Jake Ryder’s, Xavier Rogers’, and Aravind Mantri’s machines touched down, Rogers’ Commando immediately jettisoning the single-use jetpack that prevented it from cratering without the jump jets the other ‘Mechs had. Civilians were already scattering from the buildings, fleeing away from the warmachines descending from the sky.

“Shagohad, take out that radio tower,” Sasha called over the commlink, firing a couple of autocannon shells into the structure the ensure the Firestarter pilot knew what he was talking about, “After that, set about securing the core buildings here. Burn ‘em if you have to. High Roller, Martini, I want the three of us patrolling eight-zero-zero metres out from the airfield. I’ll take bearing zero, High Roller, bearing one-two-zero, Martini, bearing two-four-zero. Once we’re eight hundred out, we’ll start circling clockwise around the field. Weapons hot, sensors active, shoot anything that looks suspicious, but keep it to a walk unless we’re receiving fire; I don’t want any stumbles out there.”

The Clint was already purring beneath him, rising to it’s cruising speed of sixty kilometres an hour. “Remember, eyes on the horizon, not on the dropship. They can land on their own, the help they need from us right now is looking for any trouble coming for them. Oh, and Aravind? Looks like you’re called Martini now.”

With a flip of a switch, Sasha toggled on his Clint’s external speakers. “Attention, Midale civilians. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s going to be some imminent violence, so unless you want to be part of it, go home, grab what’s precious to you, and get out of town.”

[cmopatrick]

The dropship's portal thunders open again, this time setting the ramp for those of us who will walk out instead of jetting down. The Captain's Raven sits as if in some amount of consternation. Well, that's not fair, maybe they are madly trying to come up with a new plan... kinda late for that. What else unexpected are we going to encounter?

I key up on the command lance channel, “Lets get out and set a perimeter for the dropship. I think the Captain's busy working on an unexpected change of plans. We're all good enough to wait outside. I would suggest that we not try to melt down a busload of nuns, but if you see any aircraft you don't think we can use, I say we test our weapons on them.”

Throttle up. I reach up and clear the safeties on all five weapons as out of the 'Mech cubicle my Osprey steps. Out into the sunshine and onto the hard ground, moving purposefully and beginning a walking dance... never enough of a straight line or constant speed to make a sniper's life too easy, torso moving left and right, checking everything I can see in the blazing desert sunshine for targets.

Of course, there aren't going to be any problems here, right? Yeah, tell that to the folks on the Black Joke. I go out maybe two hundred meters and begin a curl to the right.

(edit: formatting change)

Edited by cmopatrick, 28 January 2014 - 05:55 AM.