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[Marwynn]

PROLOGUE

The Shadow Hawk weaved left, slowing to a side-stepping jog as it twisted its torso. Dry rock crumbled as it thudded by, blooms of fire peppering its wake. The Armstrong J11 autocannon on its back swung down into its ready-fire position and chattered in bursts, sending a stream of shells into the path of the rushing Crusader. Coherent light raged futily past the black and grey 'Mech. Smoke billowed from the medium 'Mech's right breast, followed by blossoming fire on the 65-ton 'Mech that did little but pockmark its once-pristine paint.

Still the autocannon fired, gnawing off shreds of armour until it stopped suddenly. The reloading mechanism whirred for a bit longer then powered down. A final flight of long ranged missiles smashed into the worried torso of the bulky Crusader; spurting liquids meant it had been a good hit. It didn't slow, bearing down on the lighter 'Mech with fists upraised, its arsenal of missiles and lasers forgotten in blinding rage.

Outgunned, the Shadow Hawk pilot spread its stance as if to receive the charge then pivoted to deliver a passing knee-hit. The Crusader went down hard, and the Shadow Hawk was right on top of it even as it was falling, raining punches and kicks that crumpled its large frame.

Too late, the Shadow Hawk's pilot remembered the Griffin behind him as its Fusigon PPC bit into his back. Sparks crackled as a wave of missiles impacted all along its battered form; half found the hole the Fusigon blasted open, its fire feeding on the Shadow Hawk's internals and mangling the empty missile bay.

It was long enough for the Crusader pilot to struggle his 'Mech onto its knees. It didn't wait to be fully upright before launching punishing blows into the reeling Shadow Hawk. The Crusader laid its hands on the smaller 'Mech and pulled itself up as the SHD-2H was brought to its knees.

The autocannon hung limply, struck loose by a massive fist. The Crusader pilot saw this and ripped the Armstrong J11 from its mount. Metal, myomer, and electronics gushed apart at the tear.

Rocks crumpled under the Shadow Hawk's knees, its left arm slinking slowly into the ground. Black smoke poured from its torso wound, an electric fire starting in earnest. The harsh and distant light of the sun glinted off the barrel as the Crusader held it high triumphantly.

The club descended.

The ground burst into flames as the Shadow Hawk ignited its jump jets to smash into its executioner, sending burning rock to explode from all around it. Both landed with arms entangled just metres away, a cacophony of anguished metal and the deep roar of plasma. They sunk deeper and deeper into a self-dug pit, melting and pulverizing rock in their struggle. Lasers dug fiery, meaningless furrows into their armour when they hit, or created molten pools otherwise.

On top, finally, the Crusader freed its right hand to slam its palm into the Shadow Hawk's face. The jump jets cut off, leaving just the sound of crushing metal and splintering ferro-glass. Again, it raised its right arm to strike, slamming instead into the Shadow Hawk's upraised left forearm. The third blow whipped aside the blocking arm as the Crusader's left fist bore down.

Delicately, the SHD-2H had angled its right arm as the Crusader battered aside his defenses. The Martell Medium Laser had its focusing barrel shortened by a laser hit, but it could still fire. It did just as the 55-ton 'Mech's left forearm was swatted aside.

Light shone, burning through the Crusader's ferro-glass canopy. A fountain of fire and melting metal spurted behind.

He finally saw his opponent for a fraction of a second as the light consumed her.

Then, noise and--

Ethan Morimoto bent up from his cot, fully awake. A gentle darkness swallowed him, his screams still echoing in the stillness of his quarters. The light still burned in his mind's eye and he quavered.

Finding the dropship's thrumming at 1G thrust soothing, he stood up barefoot in his room, inhaling the stale cool air as it dried the sweat from his body.

Flicking the trid on, he sat on the cool floor cross-legged, watching a distant point of light slowly grow.

Outreach.

"The new Mercenary's Star," he whispered.

Edited by marwynn, 31 October 2011 - 02:07 PM.

[Lasershark]

Sure are a lotta fanfics in here. So far I think this one's best. Hard to say; new ones pop up maybe twice a day, and I'm not keeping up too well.

[Marwynn]

Thank you.




CHAPTER 1

Part One: Lamentations

"Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by?
Behold and see
If there is any sorrow like my sorrow,
Which has been brought on me,
Which the LORD has inflicted
In the day of His fierce anger." - Lamentations 1:12


TempTown, Harlech City
Outreach
July 22, 3046

He wore the laspistol openly on his hip, comfortable with its weight as he meandered through the listless crowds. The Free-Hire Quarter, or TempTown, is where old ‘warriors went to die. Only these old 'warriors had forgotten to, instead alternating war stories with threats in between shots. Sometimes, the shots left physical holes.

He didn't care, moving through the walking dead as on a mission.

PreFab Square was probably the cleanest part of the place, made sturdy by years of honest work when it was still where less-successful mercs stayed. It'd just be a few more years, he thought, before the place really does go to hell.

Made from the same ferroplas military units the Sphere-over used to hastily assemble barracks and sheds, PreFab Square's buildings were arrayed with more thought to long term habitation. There was even insulation on most of the older walls, and power lines and large shared showers. There was even a plastic park with real grass, he saw as he pulled aside one of the many entrances and rushed in.

It was everything a community living on the cheap needed. It was borderline squatting by most standards, except that its inhabitants--the families and followers of mercenary units--were used to the accommodations. For some, it was even an improvement having indoor plumbing in some areas. Even if there was always new construction, new additions to take in more renters, at least it kept out the heat, the cold, the rain, and whatever else.

A new coat of paint was on the first floor's walls. Cheap, pressed plywood had been located and quickly latched on. The novelty of real wood wore off quick and it was painted brown, then green, and now it was a fluorescent white that was in the process of flaking. Brown was making a comeback.

"Primer," he offered to a denizen scratching at the wall, hoping it wasn't just a madman's pastime. "Wood needs a primer first before you paint. Else," he nodded at the spiderweb cracks of white, "that happens."

He turned past a hallway as the newly enlightened man shouted the epiphany to his fellows. Too much time living in plastic, he sighed inwardly as he heard the confused reactions. Like all prophets before him, the man was misheard, misunderstood, berated, ignored, and even listened to correctly.

This open space had a rebellious blue painted thick. It wouldn't stick on either, he mused, as he found the branching hallway he needed with faded pink insulation foam still stapled to the ferroplas. Here, his footsteps were not quite loud enough to smother the shouting of angry couples or crying children just beyond the darkened hollows of their shut doors.

He made a turn, then another, and finally stopped in front of a door slightly ajar. He stood, feet slightly apart as if expecting... something. Then he heard it.

Silence.

He walked in and saw the corpse. No one heard, or paid attention to, the laser shot that punched a cauterized hole into his head. The Nakjima laser pistol was still in his right hand, an ivory hilted wakizashi gripped by his left was still stuck in him.

Three cuts.

The door was open so they could dispose of his body. Plastic had been laid out so the floor wouldn't stain. All the meagre appliances unplugged. All his belongings arrayed on his table, labeled. A haiku written on rice paper was soaking in the blood. He memorized it with a glance, though it was missing the last line.

He bowed slightly, and walked to the table, his eye on the kabuto-shaped neurohelmet. An elegant and lightweight design compared to modern models. On the faceplate was a note, with numerical passes and key-phrases. Underneath the helm was a pristine MechWarrior Combat Suit, flashy and flexible. Inside, a torn piece of rice paper read “Get your own damned boots!”

He grinned. Then chuckled, then laughed so hard the neighbours finally came and found him on the floor out of breath and crying. He was vaguely asian and so was the dead samurai, maybe they knew each other. They must have, he wouldn’t stop crying.

They took care of the burial. He stayed long enough to distribute the items that had been set apart, and gathered the rest to send to the dead man's family. Honour was fulfilled, the stain was gone.

But not all the heirlooms were the family's.

He walked home, a heavy duffel on his shoulder and two pistols on his hips.



"They have heard that I sigh,
But no one comforts me.
All my enemies have heard of my trouble;
They are glad that You have done it.
Bring on the day You have announced,
That they may become like me." - Lamentations 1:21

Edited by marwynn, 08 November 2011 - 08:23 AM.

[Marwynn]

CHAPTER 1
Part 2: The Valley Gate

TempTown, Outreach
July 22, 3046

The alleyway was meant to be straight and unintimidating. Just another space in between. The paving on the ground was uneven, and the ruts left by garbage trucks made it even more so. The apartment on the left was a story taller than the bar`s roof on the right. It still lined up geometrically, as parallel as any alley had the right to be. But it was crooked.

Refuse littered the ground, throwaways and discards that accumulated in their own nodes and eddies. More than one man had been found in this alley, but so far most of those men were alive.

Someone was laying with their back on crackling wooden skids. He breathed, sometimes. His eyes were open, but they stared straight up into the noon sun, at least the part that allowed itself to be seen over this unseemly space.

Criss-crossing lines of shadow played on his body, the clotheslines above leading a slow conga line dance of pants, underwear, and a large assortment of t-shirts. To him, it looked like a magnificent monster climbing out of its nest. Or a noble beast keeping the walls from crashing together.

Or a demon, descending to devour him.

He shouted, “Eat me!” but it came out “Eeeee moooshhh” and preceeded a cough that rattled between the walls.

He was on his knees. His hands grasping something no longer anywhere.

Then he wasn’t in the alley anymore. Minutes later, he stumbled out to the sidewallk, heralded by spinning trash.

No one looked twice. Not at the crumpled AFFC uniform. Not at the empty eyes. Not at the boots missing their spurs.

He walked straightbacked into the bar, collecting his service pistol with a nod and drank his one daily mercy: a glass of clean, tepid water. Yawning, he shoved at the door and found himself staring at two green eyes floating just behind two very dark laser barrels.

Malf me sideways, Shin Barley thought, and twice on Sundays.

The pistols hummed.