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[Oogalook]

A Tale from the Island of Misfit Mechs

I snatched my crowning moment out of the very teeth of defeat, whence so many worthy things are snatched. The map was Tourmaline, where the toasty sun and plunging LRMs can be relied upon to crisp unsheltered 'mechs to golden-brown perfection. During the pre-match countdown, as is my habit, I greeted the other pilots over VOIP. To my relief, the others were conversational, and I got to forewarn them about the overall reliability and combat prowess of my chosen ride- my Trashbucket 5J. I gracefully received their derision at the preposterous 5ML STD300 build.

If you have never piloted a Trebuchet, let me detail its myriad virtues. It has the arms of a Tyrannosaurid, dangling low in their stumpy glory, the better to deliver your lasers into whatever low cover from whose partial shelter you survey your enemy, and it possesses great quirks for added structure of the torso. It has quirks for bonus torso structure, and the streamlined body shape of an upright slice of toast. It has almost 7 hardpoints - five arm lasers and a single Missile in the chest - and also quirks for added structure, and many gifts of structure. And jump jets. All together, a worthy chassis, one might call it, to grace the foundation layer of the tier pyramid, holding aloft in the light of favor those fortunate mechs which it, by contrast, proves mighty and worthwhile.

You see, I like to run bad, or at least terminally quirky, 'mechs; it makes the builds interesting, and gives me a great excuse if I suck during a match. But the beauty of this game is that your piloting matters more than your build, and sacrificing that competitive edge for a more interesting challenge (and lower expectations for success) keeps me coming back for dumber and dumber builds every month. It normally goes badly. Just occasionally, it goes gloriously right.

Coming through in his crackly radio finery, IS commander man politely invited us to destroy all enemy 'mechs or capture the enemy base, to which there was hearty assent. All pilots on comms agreed to meet up and to pray that the other pilots would follow suit. As 'mechs straggled into the appointed map square, we began to receive buffets of PPC and Gauss from the other side of the saddle. We resolved to charge across as one, but were foiled by a massive enemy squirrel- a lone Executioner in the backfield, on the exact opposite side of our sandcastle formation. The team split, and the push dissolved like a fart in the breeze. The comms were awash with exasperation as I leapt at 101 kph to the backfield to help erase the distraction. He fell to our puggy might before I arrived, but was instantly replaced by a lone Timberwolf, whose folly was complimented by his cruddy positioning. Where the push had merely fizzled earlier, it was now thoroughly soaked, and the few of our loose pilots whose ebullience had carried them across the saddle began to suffer for our positioning sins. We rallied over comms, and I pinwheeled around again to return to the front. By the time my Trashbucket delivered me into harm's way, we'd already lost two 'mechs and, as a result, our kill lead.

The time had come for Jurasstic (Crit-aceous?) action. With a T. rex roar, wiggling my 'mech's little arms in threat, I ploughed between the flanking crystal spars and into the open, hoping that I could vacuum up the enemy's fire long enough to hearten my teammates enough to charge. My 5 MLs were intended as sort of an afterthought once I had kitted my Trashbucket out; I had designed it primarily to suffer maximum punishment, and to rapidly sacrifice its little life on whatever front needed bodies most pressingly. The STD 300 engine which accounted for half of my 'mech's weight roared as I crashed my finger into the 'W' key. My fat side torsos, juicy and ripe for the poking, bounced forward at the speed of a speeding commuter.

I sucked up fire like a hoover in hell, reconsidered my life decisions, and took a hard right to flee a Whale and his cronies coming up the slope on the left. Besides, I had spat an artillery strike beacon at them and didn't want to participate in the aftermath. As I rounded the edge of the fence line, a Thunderbolt hailed me with three LPLs and a few mediums, his red target square glaring before my shaking cockpit cam. To my lasting relief, and not for the last time, my BAP crayonned colors onto his paper doll on my screen in about the time it takes to sneeze. Right in the very Nicholas of time. My eyes flicked to the readout, and my crosshair flicked to his exposed side torso. One zorch from my lasers, and his XL engine popped like an indignant bubble. One of my fallen teammates had been avenged, but in the mean time we'd lost another pilot. My team had fully joined the fray behind me, so I took the opportunity to check the Castle for snipers. I found one - a Locust - and set to it with vengeance.

The fight was hard, but not long. My armor was weak, but my puny lasers were all arm-mounted. I whipped their five green beams around like so many angry party favors, attacking the enemy bug's legs with determination and precision. He took the opportunity to repeatedly plough his pulse laser into my torso. I stripped his treasured leg armor away, and he fled. All I had to show for it was virtually evaporated torso armor, leaving my flabby right torso waffling gently in the wind of my speed. "Very well," I thought to myself. "This mech is designed to suffer." I pulsed my five jump jets to hurl my Trashbucket over a crooked black spire and landed amid the fray again. A Marauder IIC greeted me with the hot slap of dual PPCs, and set to chasing me. He was marked with a red diamond and a fat pillar of smoke. His opposite side faced my teammates like a wall of sandbags. My BAP sneezed again, splattering colors onto the paper doll. The enemy's far side torso was gone, but its burning hulk now sheltered his still-armored CT from a quarter of my team's firepower. However, his near side was exposed and glowing yellow. I narrowed my eyes, and dispatched a volley of lasers into the weak component. I then ran around in a tight and frantic circle as if dancing on coals, trying to evade his next shot. I fired again, and my little lasers did their absolute best, but the enemy still stood.
I had a brainblast. The perfect plan.

I did the same thing again and shot him a third time.

He died. Woo!

My team rallied. Our radar had been cleared of red for the moment, and we gathered during the respite. The score was even at 6v6, and we, though battered, were in high spirits. Then came an Orion IIC, a Supernova, and a Timberwolf over the ridge. At the same time, Betty began complaining about our base, which was evidently under attack. I took to my heels, having the highest speed of my surviving teammates. On my way out, we decided to finish off the Orion first, and I managed to destroy one of his legs before leaving my team to their fight. We had the numbers advantage in this little engagement, so stopping the capture was a worthy distraction. As I went pounding off across the desert, though, I heard my teammates’ terse communications grow quiet.

The base came into view, just as my mind registered the overall shabbiness of my mech. I considered that, if I was to duel a flanking light, I needed to use the relatively long range of my lasers to the fullest advantage. The enemy mech finally came into view, and I targeted him. My heart thumped. A fresh Kintaro. He hadn't taken even the slightest licking, apparently having trekked directly from his base to ours unmolested over the course of the match. Fortunately for me, he was equipped only with TAG, NARC, LRM15, and an ER PPC. "I guess I wont be fighting from range!" thought I.

I closed in, judiciously tanking a shot to my side torso. I tried my comms, addressing my teammates, and asked after their battlefield glories and their ETA. There was a moment of some confusion. One stolid fellow spoke up. "You're the only one left, dude." Impossible! At the time of this match, the Assault progress bar still superseded the game's interest in reporting kills per team. "How many are left?" asked I, the while zigging PPC shots and melting Kintaro face. Said my good friend from his ejector seat, "Three." I gulped as I checked my status image. "Look on the bright side," thought I. "My left leg still has some armor on it."

I finished off the enemy potato. My mind was racing. Two more. Two. I could not hope to face them both, and they both knew I was alone at my base. I tightened my big-boy shorts and booked it in the direction of nowhere. There stood a convenient plateau of crystals which hid this base from the rest of the map, and I jetted to its summit to put myself out of view from that perilous abode. Loping off toward mid-map, I set myself to the task of finding one enemy at a time. Then I fell right on top of one.

The enemy Clan Hunchback flaunted his lasers at me, clearly happy IIC me. I regarded his face, and found it misliked me much, like he missed me much more than he hit with his first volley. Targeted. Bleep. Sneeze. My BAP reported his left torso stripped of armor, but the rest of his mech appeared pretty whole. Under the circumstances, I chose to stop him lasering me before I lasered him down. Two pinpoint volleys from cuddling-range, and my arm-mounted weapons lopped off his left side. His high torso mounts farted yellow Clanner gunk in the general area of my still-yellow left side, sinking their kilowatt charge into numb structural flab. I jetted over his head, zapping his skullybones, and recycled just in time to kill him before he could zorch me in return again. A strangled cheer went up on comms. Everybody had been holding their breath.

One more, and I knew where to look. I reported back to the sky, and as I drifted back toward the ground my sensors bleeped a curse- the enemy mech was at our base, distressin my mans. I retread my path again, straining to jet high enough to identify his chassis. I finally got a longer lock as I disembarked the black crystal promontory behind which I had just taken counsel with the hunchie.

A commando. Full health. Wow. He was mounted with about 3 medium lasers and an SRM or two. For once a 'mech with about my own level of firepower. I closed with him, once more giving up on my range - I needed to shoot him to stop his capture, and he at the cowered at the moment in the fullsome shelter of my basemobile. When I achieved a firing solution, he deigned to start circling me, some dark movement in his mind telling him that a confrontation in the open with a bigger 'mech being the wise course. Under the circumstances, he was probably perfectly right. However, he didn't bank on the two powers my Trashbucket granted me: endurance and precision. We orbited one another at speed, counter-clockwise, and I was able to shield my 3-laser right arm with my 2-laser left. As he zapped and splatted at my torso like the big meaty punching-bag it was, I aimed always for his left leg.

My long-suffering left arm gave out, followed by the blubbery mass of that torso. I started suffering CT damage, transferred as phonons of pain through the dead metal. I zapped and zorched, but took as good as I got. However, my pinpoint precision paid off. I amputated the offending pes of the enemy. He slowed to a crawl, and I took to hiding behind him. Three more zaps. His other leg crumpled, and the terrible little beast was done.

The comms exploded with triumphant calls - my bois had stayed to see it through! I was exultant, shouting incoherently and saying "Dude! Dude!" like Ceasar at the Delaware. We rejoiced, and I received the great praise that my insecure ego craves. This match was worth recording. This was a story for the ages. Alt+F9.

Nothing.

I checked the upper right corner, just to be greeted by the insolent glare of a red mark across the Shadowplay Icon. Of all matches, it decided not to record a Replay of this one! Oh, Hubris, that temple of mischance, ill luck betide it! I resolved to record the match the only way I could. And here we are. I hope you enjoyed this tale of bliss and bale, of fault and fortune. For just as pride was my own mistress, and lead me to my fitting desserts, so is man's virtue oft undone by woman's wiles. For so was Adam led astray by one, and Solomon by many. And so Sampson loved Delila, and she dealt him his doom, even as the sun soon wilts the flower which takes its life-blood therefrom.

Few such humbling ventures have befallen such as this. May He that bear the crown of thorns bring us unto bliss. Amen.

Don't read any translations by Tolkien while drinking late at night, kids. It's bad for your English. Sir Gawain, I'm looking at you. Damn.

[Brain Cancer]

Just wait till he discovers MRMs and the ugly duckling becomes the missile spewing swan.

Nice story, man.

[Bombast]

Brain Cancer, on 23 January 2018 - 09:21 AM, said:

Just wait till he discovers MRMs and the ugly duckling becomes the missile spewing swan.

Nice story, man.

Can't do that in the TBT-5J, I'm afraid.

[Humpday]

lol holy crap, what a huge post

[NimoStar]

Cool story bro

[HGAK47]

I read 2/3rds of that before my short attention span was exhausted. The first part was quite amusing.

[Brain Cancer]

Bombast, on 23 January 2018 - 09:28 AM, said:

Can't do that in the TBT-5J, I'm afraid.

Once you start on Trebuchets you can't just take one. It's a family of freaks by MWO standards..

[Nema Nabojiv]

Good read man!

[Angus McFife VI]

Oogalook, on 23 January 2018 - 09:18 AM, said:

I checked the upper right corner, just to be greeted by the insolent glare of a red mark across the Shadowplay Icon. Of all matches, it decided not to record a Replay of this one!

EVERY TIME!!!! I hate when that happens! Like I'd get 4 kills under 5 seconds and I go to record it but I had it off god damn it all!

But good read, was great.

[Q]

Fun read. Enjoyed your writing.