100 replies to this topic

[kevin roshak]

OOC: I have atleast one point of elementals equipped with the Wolf design aka Headhunter variant of Elementals, they lack the SRM but gain an extra machinegun more JJ fuel, and sensors. http://www.sarna.net...Battle_Armor%29


Tourism Drive 6, Sevren
20th November, 3051, 06:17

James and the rest of the gang had slept two hours in the last 24, catching what they could while still trying to fulfill their 'duties' the the civilians as the Lyran Emergency Relief Corps. Corporal Bruce had been insistent that they learn the ins-and-outs of the tanker business while they had waited to move out, lessening the sleep available. She was now riding shotgun with James in the cockpit of the Maxim, manning the comms and sensors, along with Lysander. Her
two compatriots were in the turret dealing with the Long Ranged Missiles. Rhys and Chan sat in the troop compartment, armed with what Q had given them, along with the half-dozen infantry men armed as sappers.

Carla had demanded that they take the place of the tank she had shot out from under her in Scorpio Lance, a fire-support type lance.

"So Corporal, how'd you end up here on Sevren?", James asked making sure he was understood.
She glanced around a bit, trying to ignore the fact he was spitting tobacco juice all over the otherwise pristine war machine's floor. "I joined up to get away from home, see the universe, no one expected another war after the 4th," she replied. James nodded, not knowing where he was trying to go with it. (OOC: I forgot where I was going with it, lol)

The comms opened up, a frantic voice came through "Handbasket here, second wave incoming, convoy’s nine o’clock!"

"****!" yelled James, "What do we do then lady?"
"Get the engineers out as close as we can, no doubt this is the same group as earlier. They'll have Elemental support and those are the most difficult for our mechs, find those!" Corporal Bruce replied hurriedly.

James quickly turned the Maxim and began to fly across the convoy while yelling into the intra-vehicular comms, "Look alive boys, death or glory time." He turned to Lysander and spoke quickly in Greek "So much for in-n-out." and laughed.

Corporal Bruce was in the middle of telling the lance commander, in the Vedette what was the basic plan was for the lance, the Sergent had less experience than her. "Keep raining missiles on that ridgeline until were on it! I don't care! Just get them to do it, and you look for those lights, AC5 will shred armor on mechs that light."

An unknown voice came through the comms, "This is Star Commander Warren of Clan Wolf, you have shown yourselves to be honor-less scum, and as Zellbrigen is reserved for honorable warriors. Prepare for death honor-less dogs."

"We have target lock on the Royken Corporal, do we fire?" came from the men in the turret. "What the fu*k, of course shoot you a**hats!" James screamed back, not necessarily into the comms.

The LRM volley rocked the hovercraft ever so slightly as James saw the ammunition read out drop by ten. Looking out the fero-glass windscreen James saw three hit the leg of an enemy mech, and another smashed into its center a few moments later, the rest flew right over the top. It returned fire, some what rocked with its lasers, two blue beams of light shot out, the fero-glass dimmed and the Maxim was rocked. The transports readout lit up, left side was damaged and turned yellow.

LRMs were raining down on the ridge from the rest of the lance, and the two enemy mechs halted under the barrage, forcing them behind the ridgeline. "Target lock lost," came the voice from the turrets. "No sh*t" mumbled James under his breath.

Elementals began to climb back over the ridge on their jump-jets, firing their lasers at the panicked convoy. As the Maxim closed, James steadied his shaking hands as he prepared to fire the SRMs into the elementals. "Get ready, we aint stopping up here." James said to the troops in the bay behind him.

The SRMs created an even larger lurch in the vehicles movement as they fired, blowing holes in the dirt and throwing a few Elementals into the air. James could hear the turret mounted SRM loading its missiles as well as the machine guns chattering above, pelting the Elementals with hot lead. "NOW!" James yelled as the engineers as well as Rhys and Chan departed. The turret based SRM6 now fired, taking an Elemental with it, as well as blowing more turf into the air. The Elementas had picked themselves up by now and had began to return fire, each returning fire with two AP machine guns and a small laser. The damage display began to light up all over, and James began to manuver to gain a way out an Elemental landed right infront of the Maxim. James barreled into it at full spead, smashing it out of the way with the Maxims rounded bumper. The turret swung around to fire where it landed, decimating the Elemental.


As James began to make his way back towards the convoy the rear mounted LRM spat out its missiles in a vain attempt to support the infanty. The engineering squad was faring poorly these Elementals seemed to be modified for hunting infantry. The grenades and explosives the team had was not enough to down one outright, and the light arms seemed to scratch the armor of the Elementals, nothing else.

"You can't leave them there to die!" yelled Carla. "This is an infantry support vehicle, we need to help them!" She looked at James disgusted, "They'll die without us!"

"Look lady we'd die too if we stayed there, they had mech there and who know how many more of those battle armor units. I didn't come here to die, and since we're gonna die here soon, I didnt come here to help noone neither. I'm here to sell drugs." James yelled back, popping open a consol to reveal various powders and pills. "We're going back to add to the weight of fire from the LRMs, force them to keep their heads down till we can make our escape!"

Carla Bruce sat in stunned silence as the rear mounted LRM spat out

Me and Lysander are left now, I wonder how Gallery is doing with this invasion, havent heard from the boss-man in a while.

[Xetherius]

Tourism Drive 6, Sevren
20th November, 3051, 06:24

Alex watched as the barrage of missiles forced the two clan mediums back up the ridge, finger hovering just above his PPCs firing stud. As they descended out of view, his comms crackled to life.

"Libra 1, why didn't we open fire?"

"Because, Libra 2, it doesn't appear we've been spotted yet. Remember your post, we're the rear guard until the LT gives new orders. I want you to keep one eye on the ridge and another on your sensors. If those mediums decide to pop their heads over the hill for another attack, I want you to hit them with everything you can. Prioritize the heavier Ryoken if possible. Watch your sensors, those lights might try to assault the convoy from behind. If so, we stop them. The mediums might try to flank around while we're focusing on the ridge too. If so, hold fire until you know you've got a clean shot. If they get within 600m of the convoy, we laterally intercept them, our heavies can take a helluva lot more punishment than those transports."

Alex turned his cockpit towards the rest of the convoy, zooming the image in to full. Elementals were taking pot shots at the vehicles, and the civvies were panicking, some of the vehicles trying to scatter. A Vedette deployed a squad of infantry, which were quickly torn apart by a squad of anti-infantry Elementals.

"We can't just sit here doing nothing! People are dying over there!" Libra 2 cried over the comms.

"If we expose ourselves too soon, we lose our advantage and more people could die."

"But-"

"Those Elementals are about to close with our tanks, you start opening fire you run the risk of hitting friendlies. We can best protect the convoy by watching the ridge and keeping an eye out for hostile movement. No surprises."

Several seconds of silence were finally broken by his lancemate's deep sigh.

"...Fine. I see your point. But if the LT calls for help, I'm going."

Alex turned his attention away from the soon to be grim spectacle and back towards the ridge. He sighed, gently rubbing his temples. The 10 minute nap between the repairs and departure from the rail depot had helped a little bit, but roughly a day without sleep was starting to take its toll. Glancing at his empty sensors, Alex offered a quick prayer for the dead, and that this would be over as quickly and cleanly as possible...

Edited by Xetherius, 30 October 2013 - 07:11 PM.

[RogueSpear]

Tourism Drive 6, Sevren,
20th November, 3051, 06:14

Dirk yawned, closing the text log without saving and turned off the screen. Glowing equations slowly faded from the CRT all too correct and all too unhappy. Rubbing his eyes, Dirk kicked his chair back to the forward view, leaning forward to fumble in exhaustion under the console for the handle of the minifridge. Stifling another yawn with the freshly retrieved can of Zoom! Energy, he watched Vagrant Crisis backhand Tar Mack through a bank with a Leopard dropship. Heroic music was drowned out by the sound of monstrous screams, mangled metal and falling ferrocrete, the gargantuan 'titan class' mech striking a two handed pose over the flailing ettin.
Try as he might, the TBQ's resident mad engineer just couldn't figure out how to build a skeleton strong enough to hold a 650 tonne mech upright and retain mobility for less than one of the new Davion Fox class WarShips.
He chuckled quietly to himself, knowing it wouldn't be the last time he tried.

The sky still glowed from the sacking of saddleport. The angry red clouds didn't look quite real, like someone had used a blown up image of charcoal embers as the skybox in a simulation. But not as blocky.
Reality had good anti-aliasing, even on resolution errors. Perhaps-
He shook himself back awake with a start, rubbing futiley at his eyes again. Tar Mack bellowed, biting the Leopard class into a tremendous fireball and tearing long scratches in Vagrant Crisis' Atlas-thick armour. The little screen was starting to seem dim in the sunrise. Dirk breathed a silent prayer to Sierra that the morning would blot out the sky-wound.
He squinted at the multi-hued, electric green can, and offered up another one to any god that might be listening that the caffeine would kill off the brain-stupid.

Thinking of stupid...what on Terra was he going to do with a bondsman? Bondswoman? He should've handed Klaudia over to Lieutenant Delfino straight away. Instead he'd been trying to order her around and act as her...what had she called it? Bondholder. Whatever that meant.
Mechwarrior Bradbury of the infamous Tombstone Barbershop Quartet sulked petulantly in his cockpit, lit by the glow of a cult classic B vid, the rising sun and the firelight of a dying city. He was no warrior, no commander. He was barely able to say no to his daughter or send her to her room. Oh he could order around a tech crew well enough, but that was easy. All you had to do was be right more often than the rest and they'd follow your instructions. It wasn't hard to be right with tech either. It all obeyed the same immutable laws of physics. Except for quantum physics, but that just obeyed a different set of rules. That may or may not be magic. He made a face. There was a reason he'd never tried to build a mech computer.
All he'd wanted was to find some clan tech. Was that so much to ask? Just look at how they did things. Oh he had his theories, but were they right? Were they close enough, but different? Or did they just not work? Well now he had some. A suit of genuine, very real clan Elemental power armour. And an Elemental. Always a cloud. That was the thing with the Quartet. Nothing ever went smooth.

So now he had a pet clanner, in a suit of very cool tech he couldn't play with, marching alongside a convoy of refugees, desperately trying to outpace her friends. Her armour bore a rushed and patchy coat of red paint to mark her friendly. He'd tried to make conversation a couple of times since their conversation at the railway, to little effect. She clearly didn't think of him as a warrior and wore her shame of capture like a wall of ice around her. He'd soon given up.

He finished his can of Zoom! and shoved it into the waste disposal pipe. With a push of a button, the pipe closed and a moment later a puff of air sent the can sailing overhead. Klaudia probably wouldn't approve of that either, but to h*ll with her.

“Dove, this is Handbasket, movement on the ridgeline," The excited voice startled Dirk awake, Messer automatically pausing the 'In March' movie. "A single Dasher-wait, I’m picking up a Koshi with him. S***, make that two Koshis. Repeat, convoy’s ten o’clock position, 3 lights flanking us.”

Even with the warning, nearly the entire convoy was taken utterly by surprise. Messer was lurching painfully forward when the three lights blazed through, gyro thrown off balance from Dirk's exhausted vertigo. His head swam and the neural feedback from the mech made it hard to regain his balance. The radio was a blur of confused and panicked voices, marking targets, reporting damage, clamouring for orders. A barked command to Messer set the mech's feet in a preprogrammed pattern and gave him a moment to wrench the ancient mech upright. His lancemates were squaring off with the clans, Ocean blasting off a volley of LRMs into the ridgeline, Frontgate and Dove jetting over the convoy to face the two mediums.
"Hammer! Snap out of it! Smoke across the ridgeline and cover our advance! Now!"
Oh yeah. Hammer. 'Brains' set his shoulders. That was him. That's what he'd called himself to try and look tough. Genius.

"Affirmative Dove," His left hand danced across the console, turning on screens and flicking switches overhead. His right rotated the mech's turret west, fingers tapping away at a mini-numpad wrapped round the grip. Inputting variables for the Whacker firing solutions. A series of resounding thunks echoed loudly from his right in a reassuring pattern before a cloud emblem replaced a cartoon explosion on his HUD, signalling the ammo change. A quick flick of the firing stud kicked up a plume of dirt a hundred metres at a perfect 90 degrees from his position, 200m from the rear. Vomit green smoke spewed from the crater in thick, repeating spurts. Swinging east, he nervously checked his flank for any sign of the returning lights. Another carefully calculation later sent a second shell across furious fusillades of fire between the convoy guards and the two clan mediums, precisely a further 200 metres up and 100 metres across.
"And for our next trick..." Dirk muttered.. Messer could manage a complete rotation in 9 seconds. He needed that speed now. Logging the actions into the computer, he checked the ejection failsafes, set the timer and took his hands off the controls.


Tourism Drive 6, Sevren,
20th November, 3051, 06:26

Warrior Klaudia hunched low in her repainted armour, taking cover behind a thick oak tree. Bullets tore through the foliage around her, Wolf Elementals closing in for the kill. The freebirth convoy was in chaos, two wheeled vehicles disabled by gunfire and their guards under heavy fire. She had been forced to disembark from the truck she'd been mounted on when the combat started, hanging from the side of a labourer truck was even more vulnerable than hanging from an omnimech. Now she was pinned down without orders from her bondholder or his 'lieutenant.'
What an undignified way to die.
While she waited, he stood barely fifty metres from her position, futilely firing gouts of toxic looking smoke into the incoming elementals. As if the convoy hadn't already been flanked by half a star of lights. A suicidal hovercraft had rocketed off towards the clan battleline, now obscured behind the heavy green smoke. Brave, but foolish. She wondered if it was some sort of clever scheme or if it's crew simply knew death when they saw it and wanted to die with honour. It would pleasantly surprise her.
The deafening booms from Bradbury's cannon suddenly intensified. The triple retort tore three filthy wounds in the earth at the head of the convoy, violent plumes of gas rocketing into the sky ninety metres apart. The rapidly rotating turret snapped to a halt, centred perfectly.
And a brilliant blue PPC bolt blinded her, it's impact removing the Helepolis' cockpit from view.

[dal10]

Tourism Drive 6, Sevren
20th November, 3051, 06:24

The clans had found them. There didn't seem to be too many however, so they might have a shot.

"I ******* told you guys this would happen..." Rockwell swore under his breath. Ritz had been up for nearly two whole days at this point while driving non-stop. She was currently passed out in the radio seat while Chicken double shifted as the "commander" and the radio operator. Her job was to call out targets and to keep the unit in contact with the rest of the makeshift company that made up their unit. Of the defenders for the convoy, Rockwell had been given command of a short lance due to his rank as a battalion level senior NCO. The short lance consisted of his and another manticore that had a destroyed srm6, and a bulldog that seemed to be missing its infantry detachment, which was likely left for dead or captured back in the ruins of Saddleport. They had been assigned to close convoy defense and as such were running just behind the civilian and other transports¹. The immediate front of the convoy was covered by a brace of humvees with mounted machine guns and the striker vehicle lance. at least part of the striker lance had turned to face the mechs and elementals that were incoming.

A large mech with a massive cannon for the arm was churning out rounds at the clan mechs, laying down some kind of smoke screen. some other units were adding fire to its efforts, to no apparent effect. he say a laser bolt flash one of the striker lance vehicles up front, but for the most part the clans seemed content just skirmishing with them for the moment.

"Rockwell, i can't get a target lock through the smoke, what should we do?" Chicken asked from her perch in the turret. She wasn't enjoying the double duty, but she was the most coherent member of the crew, even with all the sore spots from her removing the leaches. there had been so many that even though she spent well over an hour picking them off, there were a few left. But she didn't have time or privacy to deal with them however.

"Have our lance volley their main batteries into the smoke, lets hope the clans will keep their head down until we can reach the fort, nothing short of a battalion will be enough to force us out of there. but have them hold off on the missiles. We have a major battle at the end of this nightmare and i want us to still have ammo for then."

"Roger," she responded before getting on the radio "Pisces lance, volley fire your main guns at the clan positions to make them keep their heads down, but save the rockets, new catris is going to need them later."

With that Kirche rotated the manticore's pp towards the smoke screen obscuring both sides from each other.

The Parti-kill ppc is different from most other particle cannons in the fact that instead of shooting a beam like most other models, it compressed the ion slurry into a tight shell using a similar principle to the engine that ran it. Then using a series of electromagnets it accellerated the shell down the barel before the ********* of doom that was created can destabilize. The ball itself tended to expand and cool down significantly a bit after five hundred and forty meters. The electrical charge from the ball was also extreme, with tiny lightning bolts arcing off the ion shell and scouring the enviroment around it. While potentially harmful to humans and other unarmored targets, these bolts wouldn't do much more than burn the paint off of a mech.

Two of these shells and a blue spear of light shot out from pisces lance, and proceeded to disappear into the smoke. repeated volleys followed it as the three tanks sprayed the last known positions of the clans with as many bolts of lightning and light as they could. They couldn't see if they were hitting anything, but the clans would definitely know that something substantial was shooting at them, and hopefully that would be enough.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

1: figured striker in front of the convoy because there fast, pisces in the back because we are slower, and two mechs on each side of the convoy.

Edited by dal10, 07 November 2013 - 05:23 AM.

[Thom Frankfurt]

Pop, pop, ping, pop, ping, ping, pig...Zhaaappp!

"Damnit Barbeque, wake up!!" Cooper slapped Ryan out of his stupor and shook the jump troop by the front of his fatiges. "Get the funk up, the Wolves are here!" With that the Lyran tossed the drug addled man down and peeked over the edge of the dump truck's bed that was carrying the few surviving members of the 25th Arcturian Guard infantry.
**********************************************************
Coop's body was a hunk of half melted wax, uniformed and trickling molten wax where he sat peeking over the lip of the humpback tortoise's shell. Silva and the other occupants stared off into nothingness with featureless faces like bloated maggots with two black pits for eyes. Ryan swatted a freakishly large fly with sparkling emerald green eyes. Ryan shook his head trying to clear it.

"It's the morphine... Focus on the pain, Ryan. That is real."

Indeed it was, a dull throbbing pain, which served as Ryan's anchor to reality. Grimacing, the Thorinite pulled himself up in time for several ghosts to streak across the sky keening like banshees. The sky itself was lit up in an unnatural crimson tint, like the world was aflame. The landscape alien and strange, pitted with craters that erupted with geysers of blood. Billowing green clouds of acid rain swept across the waste, half obscuring the freakishly large metallic werewolf looking beast that roamed the wastes in search of prey.

One of the things raised it's arm and spewed out violet hellfire, Ryan looked on in horror, but Waxface pulled him down in the knick of time. A sharp pain lanced through his leg and he fell into a heap in the hallow of the Great Turtle's shell.

"What the funk you doing?!" Roared out Waxfaced Cooper. Ryan gasped and struggled to pull off the white viper coiling around his leg.

"It's the morphine, Ryan... Focus on the pain. That is real. Oh the pain..."

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 08 November 2013 - 10:57 PM.

[Spokes]

Tourism Drive 6
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 06:26 Hrs

This was not supposed to happen. They were so close to the hill country north of the Whitecrowns, so close to some semblance of refuge. But the Wolves had caught them just short of their goal, and now the chance to hide seemed lost. So to, there seemed no way to run, the radio chatter suggesting that convoy had been thrown into chaos by the three Clan 'Mechs that had sprinted past in the opening moments of the battle.

They would have to stand and fight. And, somehow, they would have to win.

Shaking hands clutched at the control sticks, occasionally releasing one or the other long enough to wipe sweat covered palms on the thin fabric covering the cooling vest. The low light of the rising sun cast long shadows over the uneven ground, forcing Gen to keep a wary eye on the terrain in front of her as she brought her Assassin up to speed. She paced the Sentinel, keeping well to the right of the other machine in order to better avoid a collision should Handbasket suddenly need to maneuver.

Geneviève's heart was in her throat, the sound of it hammering in her ears. Sevren had been a battleground on and off for centuries-- the BattleMech she was conning had been seized from Combine forces during a raid on Sevren some sixty years ago, and the machine had subsequently been used in raids against the DCMS troops garrisoned here. Her mother had used the 'Mech during the campaign that had finally liberated the world after more than a hundred years of occupation. It was likely that this area had seen battle before, possible even that this was not the first time her Assassin had fought over this particular stretch of ground. There was a small comfort in that. Gen glanced left, checked her spacing with the Sentinel, looked back in time to juke past a rapidly approaching tree.

Two deep booms sounded from the direction of the main convoy, followed by three more in rapid sequence. There was a quick, high whistle of artillery shells, a series of dull thumps, and then, several rapidly expanding clouds of a putrid green smoke off to their left.

"Qu'est-ce?! Watch where you are shooting, yes?!" The Sentinel eased to the right a bit, its pilot seemingly wary of the strange cloud. Gen mirrored the move.

There was a warbling chirrup from the computer, a blue hexagon on the heads up display, now two, no lateral motion from the contacts. Gen glanced down at the MFD, saw two red pips on the detection grid, closing on a direct intercept. She looked back up in time to see a glint of sunlight on metal far out in front of her, moving fast through the trees against a blood red sky. The sudden shrill of the weapons lock alarm was loud in the tiny compartment. She leaned forward as far as the restraints would allow, ignored the discomfort of the saddle seat, left hand squeezed tight on the control stick. Her right hand reached down and brushed a control on the MFD's touch panel.

"Active Radar Mode". The synthesized words were fast and clipped, the feminine voice of the computer tuned to a careful mix of urgency and disdain.

There was a flicker of motion off to her left as the Sentinel's arm mounted autocannon came up and into line with the racing speck dead ahead. Gen eased the blue reticle box for the LRM launcher over the target, the Assassin's tight-beam fire control radar locking on as she did so. B.E.R. flashed next to the box. Beyond Effective Range. The target ID on the multi-function display flipped back and forth between CRB-27 and CHP-1N. Gen's left thumb eased up and over top of the LRM trigger button. . .

The Sentinel suddenly wavered, planted its right foot, cut left into the vile green cloud. Gen looked over, saw it now, the great wall of green smoke completely obscuring the convoy. She realized suddenly that she was the only target left in the Clanners' field of view.

Gen hammered the right pedal forward and the Assassin cut left towards the cloud. Her eyes flicked back to the reticle. B.E.R. The metal speck under the reticle flashed, the twin beams lasting less than a heartbeat. The snap-fizzle of ablating armor mixed with the screech of tortured metal, and suddenly the Assassin's right side felt like it was cast in lead. The 'Mech hung in the air for half a stride, the moment seeming to take longer than it should have, and then the whole machine pitched right and forward, the ground rushing up towards the canopy.

Geneviève's scream was cut short as the crash harness bit into her, the Assassin digging a deep furrow as it crashed face first into the ground.

[G is for Gamma]

...didn't belong and wasn't welcome. Not that it bothered me of course, but I got the distinct feeling that Lt. Delfino had little patience for the press corps, or maybe my natural sleaze turned her off to the idea of even having to speak to me, either way getting an official statement out of her was like pulling teeth. In hindsight there is some irony in the fact that the women who wouldn't speak to a reporter ended up being a household name thanks to a few seconds of tri-vid footage.
Not to wander off topic, but that footage? Not even that great. Just her jumping around some trees and generally missing her targets. Unless she had an issue with the local flora, which if you'd ever had to suffer through the pollen count of a Sevrin spring you'd understand her desire to burn it all to the ground.
Hush, Dear Reader. I know, I know. You don't want to hear me wax poetic about flowers. You want action..
While I might not have received a warm welcome from the lady commander, the gaggle of refugees who had found their way into the train yard saw me as something of a messiah, the missing link between them and the world of the gruff tried looking men and women who were suppose to be their protectors. Apparently one of the local yokels had seen me step out of the mustang and stories of me removing wounded fedcom grunts from the belly of chopper had spread around the campfires. Of course I wasn't going to break their hearts with something as trivial as the truth........

Running from the Wolves. Chpt 5. Page 67.

[Thom Frankfurt]

Tourism Drive 6
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 06:26 Hrs

"It's the morphine, Ryan... Focus on the pain. That is real. Oh, the pai-" Ryan was cut off by the Great Turtle pitching to the side violently, a rough listing that caused the injured maggot-troops to groan out in misery as the tortoise raced off road in flight from it's unholy tormentors. More banshees shrieked across the sky, their kneel making the passengers cringe in their place in the hallow of the Tortoise's shell.

SCHRRRREEEEESSSHHHH...BOOM! Suddenly the brim of the Great Turtle's shell blew off in a chaotic shower of withered metal confetti that ripped through the nearest uniformed maggotmen. The turtle moaned, rocked, and pitched, changing course to throw off it's pursuers. The shell bucked beneath Ryan violently all of a sudden as the Lyran looked on in horror the Turtle was tipping over.

Training kicked in, despite how sluggish and nonresponsive his limbs seemed. Barbeque jetted out of the wreck with several others hot on his heels, narrowly avoiding the wreck of the Great Turtle's demise as it careened over a rise and nosedived to into a large outcropping of granite. Darkness overtook him as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 15 November 2013 - 03:57 PM.

[Spokes]

Tourism Drive 6
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 06:27 Hrs


Critical Damage, Right Leg

The tiny control compartment was dark, the canopy completely buried in the ground. The multi-function display cast a weak, flickering glow that provided threadbare illumination.

Critical Deformation, Right Hip Assembly

Geneviève hung from the safety harness, writhing and gasping like a fish out of water, hands clawing at the padding on the arm rests. I cannot breathe!!

Critical Damage, Right Femoral Actuator

She closed her eyes against the pain in her chest, clutched at the restraints, a futile attempt to take some of her weight off the straps. Try as she might, Geneviève could not inhale. Her mind swam with panic as it tried to determine just how badly she'd been hurt.

Auxiliary Femoral Control Systems, Unresponsive

A choked gasp. Another. Her fingernails dug into the restraints as her lungs stubbornly refused to inflate. Then, something in her chest seemed to relax, one long, shuddering gasp. A deep breath, another, the panic receding as her breathing slowly returned to normal.

Critical Damage, Right Arm. Structural Failure Imminent

The flickering light from the look down MFD was coming from the wire frame damage readout. Both the right arm and the right leg were flashing bright red, the graphic details of the 'Mech's injuries snapping up on the right side of the display as the computer stepped through the diagnostics. Gen closed her eyes, didn't really want to read any further, could see enough already to know that the single volley from the Clanner had crippled her Assassin.

Critical Damage, Right Forearm Actuator

Her mind turned on her in the shallow grave of the dark cockpit. Memories surfaced, her mother's critical scorn, the disinterested tutors, the hope from the aging knights who had never managed to find time for children, their collective faith in her now curdled into a sour disappointment. Even the computer seemed to be mocking her, the clipped words accusing to her ears as they recited her litany of failure.

The jackal that had effortlessly swatted her aside hadn't even bothered to make sure she was dead.

Auxiliary Forearm Control Systems, Engaged

Her wallowing was interrupted by the uneven roar of a VTOL flying past somewhere close by. Still hanging from the restraints, neck straining to hold up the weight of the neurohelmet, Geneviève reached down and hit the button to switch the MFD back to the tactical display. The H-7 Attack Helicopter appeared briefly as a blue pip on the screen before it passed out of sensor range. Perhaps the Wolves had more important things to worry about than a single, crippled Assassin.

One memory suddenly boiled to the surface at that thought, her old swim coach, the gentle admonishment-- "Don't you worry about the clock, don't worry about what the other swimmers might be doing or any of that. You worry about you. You worry about what you are doing, nothing else. Swim in your own lane. You swim in your own lane, you'll be just fine."

She took a deep breath, reached down, both hands on the control sticks now, could almost feel the old man's grip on her shoulder.

Okay. . .okay. I see it. Je peux le faire. . .

Standing a BattleMech up from a prone position is never an easy maneuver, less so with a jammed hip and a shattered arm. Geneviève hauled at the controls, got the machine's good arm underneath it, gradually worked the 'Mech up onto one knee.

The Assassin was still for a moment, the barely functioning arm oozing smoke into the early morning light. And then the machine heaved forward, and chevalière Duchemin got back up. . .

[dal10]

Tourism Drive 6
White-crown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 06:30 Hrs


It had been a tense few minutes since the clan nova had started its ambush of the Lyran convoy currently making a beeline to the coast on Sevren.

"I can't tell if we are hitting anything." Kirche whispered under his breath.

"And that is why i said told everyone to save the missiles." Rockwell responded. The other Manticore in the makeshift lance that they commanded had held off on using their expendables.

Overall the convoy seemed in decent shape, some of the mechs got hit and one of the striker vehicles seems to be in be in bug out boogie. Some of the civilian vehicles got hit but no casualties were reported.

Then a pair of dark shapes wandered through the fog. It wasn't one of the convoy's mechs, all were accounted for, even the assassin that came limping back in a couple minutes prior was on this side of the smoke, meaning the clans were no longer content with taking potshots at the convoy.

Since vehicles didn't come equipped with the massive battle computer and sensor suite that mechs came with, they didn't have a computer that would automatically identify what they were facing. To rectify this deficiency, every tanker went through a mandatory course to learn to recognize every mech and tank one would see on the battlefield. While some of the more obscure ones are skipped, the lists of ones you must recognize is updated fairly often. Rockwell and the rest of the Taco el Grande knew what mechs they were dealing with.

"Chicken, tell everyone to focus fire on the Ryoken. If that mech gets into the convoy the civvies are toast. weapons free, hit it with everything we got"

"Pisces 1-2 and 1-3 Weapons free, Fire on the Ryoken. I repeat, Weapons free. Fire on the Ryoken. We can't let that thing get to the convoy."

"May god have mercy on your soul warrior. It is either you or us, and we have fought too hard for it to be us" Kirche muttered before he opened fired.

With that all hell broke loose on the Ryoken. It was out-massed over 3-1 by the trio of heavy tanks. While it nearly equaled the tanks in firepower, it didn't have anywhere near enough armor to withstand the barrage of 3 main battle tanks.

The whoosh of the missiles was easily heard by everyone inside as Kirche unloaded the entirety Manticore's arsenal into the clan mech. The PPC tracked to the left and smashed into is left arm, leaving a cherry red weal of molten metal over its elbow. The lrms grouped poorly and scattered damage all over the war machine. A pair of them tracked into the left arm, while three more hit the left leg. Of the remaining nine, five smashed into the center torso, scattering chunks of the mech's ferro-fibrous armor across the field. The srm 6 on the other hand grouped tightly and punched all six missiles directly into the gut of the lighter mech, sending shards of broken armor all over like a pane of glass that just got hit with a sledgehammer.

The Ryoken had taken a heavy beating from Pisces 1-11. But the rest of Pisces lance also tore into the mech. Only the PPC of the other Manticore hit, with the lrms missing high and arcing just over the mechs shoulders. The PPC bolt buried itself into the mechs left thigh. The bulldog did little more, Its large laser missed by shooting between the mech's arm and its side. The short range missiles the tank launched fared better though, arrowing in and ripping off the damaged left arm of the Ryoken.

The Ryoken pilot was good, very good. Despite the massive pounding that it had just taken, the pilot managed to keep the battered mech up on its feet. He even managed to return fire with his remaining firepower. The ER large laser punched the Taco el Grande straight in the glacial armor, melting off nearly of a 5th of it. The other arm mounted laser missed, while the head mounted laser carved off some of the side armor of the lance's other Manticore.

The Ryoken didn't live to launch another volley.

The tanks had zeroed their aim this time. The next volley repeatedly smashed into the already injured machine. The twin Manticore's Particle cannons belched out their lightning shells in unison, putting a big one two hit directly into the guts of the Clan mech, bending it over slightly as a tonne and a quarter of armor vaporized off its fuselage, leaving the center of the mech wide open if more fire came its way. Which the rest of the lance did. The Manticore's missile racks pumped out another volley of 30 lrms directly into the mech, which took a cheese grater to the armor. Then the Bulldog's large laser redeemed itself, Capitalizing on the massive damage that had already been inflicted by the other two tanks in the lance, it cored the mech, rending the armor over the heart of the reactor itself, and penetrating it.

Rockwell saw the explosive bolts on the cockpit blow, but something had hit the cockpit and wedged it in place. It only half removed itself from the mech. But even before the mech's ejection rockets could fire, plumes of crimson flames burst out of the many rents in the Ryoken's armor. With a large one gushing right out of the cockpit, ending the pilot permanently. He and or she didn't even have the time to realize they were about to die before they were incinerated.

Like a puppet whose marionette had just cut its strings, the Ryoken toppled over backwards with all the grace of a floundering humpback whale.

Looking for other targets, Pisces lance realized that the Fenris had wandered out of weapon's range , leaving the tanks unable to contribute to its destruction.

"Well that's one down, 4 to go..." Rockwell said as Ritz's head lolled around while mumbling some pop song, and blissfully remained unaware of the carnage going on around her.


_______________________________________________________________________________________--

1: keeping with the tank call sign scheme. Since he is in a differently named lance, the tank call sign defaults to its position in that lance.

[whtwlf]

Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
2km East of Tourism Drive 6
20th November, 3051 06:28

The Commando danced between cover, taking point in the formation. After the pair’s midnight engagement, the Commando pilot received a response over the Net; a rally point. Finally, a solid objective that didn’t involve running away.

Since then, things had been relatively quiet but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, aside from the planet being invaded and all. She frowned at the Commando and keyed her mic.

“What do you see up there?” Bailey impatiently poked the Centurion’s head from cover, squinting against the early morning light to get a better look. She spotted green columns of smoke rising on the horizon. At its base, wee mechs, vehicles and personnel the size of ants scrambled madly about in the heat of combat.

The Commando pilot’s voice crackled over the radio, “Those are the friendlies we’ve been looking for, about two clicks out. Looks like two or three clanner mechs between us and them. Lights. Maybe 800 meters out. They’re turning back towards the convoy.” At least he kept things short and to the point.

“I say we let them close and pop off a few rounds to get their attention before they get within weapons range,” she said, gunning the throttle without waiting for his answer.

As if in response, the trio of enemy mechs opened up with their ER large lasers, raking at the formation. They were closing fast on the convoy’s unprotected flank.

Bailey charged ahead, taking point. She brought the Centurion’s AC10 to bear and popped off a round. A fountain of dirt and sod erupted a dozen meters short of her intended target but her shot had the desired effect. The wolf pack scattered and turned their attention and their mechs back to the east.

White Wolf raised her quartered shield to meet the attacks head on, autocannon roaring . She kept her shots off rhythm, throwing off the timing of the enemy’s serpentine movements. Bailey was rewarded with an unhappy screech of metal on metal from one of the clanner’s mechs.

As the two forces closed the last two hundred meters, the Commando pilot broke off from behind the cover of Bailey’s Centurion and started a brutal attack run on the wounded Mist Lynx. The mad pilot charged his opponents head on for a joust then cut behind the next mech in line.

Never let the enemy dictate your tempo. It was one of her Ma’s many rules of combat but the Commando pilot seemed to embody it. The man wouldn’t hold still enough for the clanners to get a good bead on him.

Turning the Centurion, Bailey began to pepper everything from knee level down with SRMs and small laser fire. “What happened to fighting fair?” she shot across local comms. They were moving too quick to land AC10 rounds with any level of accuracy so she settled for keeping the enemy off balance.

“We’re warriors, not idiots,” came an irritated reply, “You freeborn low lives don’t play fair, why should we?”

The Commando pilot responded with a torrent of curses questioning parentage and battle prowess, a few of which made Bailey smirk.

She shook her head. Still, two to three were not terribly good odds.

Edited by whtwlf, 20 November 2013 - 04:22 PM.

[kevin roshak]

Tourism Drive 6
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 06:31 Hrs

As last volley fired from the Maxim's rear launcher, James turned the vehicle around and slowed it down to take a view at what happened. Smoke covered the area where the massacre James had just left, and a Mech that they had been firing at earlier was just being downed by the second lance of heavy slow tanks. Another mech, piloted by the funny talking broad, was wobbling around trying to steady itself. It was a surreal sight, flashes of light and the occasional boom or whoosh of cannon and missile fire, dampened by the cockpit.

"What the h*ll?" the Corporal yelled at James, shock turning into anger. "How can you even justify taking advantage of these people in a da*n crisis?" "Wha."

James interrupted, turning red in the face from anger and frustration.
"Listen lady, like I said, you don't know what its like to live in h*ll. I've been there, I've fought for the people, not whatever you a**hats in the military get us into. I've seen men starve to death, I've seen men beg for mercy and receive none, all from people just like you. I provided a useful service, somehow I give people what they want, and all you provide is death and taxes. Now shut your da*m mouth 'fore I do." James roared throwing his hat on the floor, sweat pouring down his face from the anger and stress of the battle.

Lysander scowled at James but said nothing while the Corporal sat angrily in silence, glancing over and scowling often.

F*ck, this lady doesn't know pain or hardship.
Carla glanced over again, anger in her eyes.

"Whadda ya want?! I'll stick your comission up yer a** lady, do your da*n job, find me something to fecking murder." James was starting to rage.

All of a sudden the latch to the turret popped down and James was knocked unconcious. The two men looked around curiously, and saw Lysander standing over James slumped body.
"Boreíte kolasméno̱n ólous mas (You have da*ned us all") He murmured as he sat back down, stoned faced in his starched uniform. As a tear rolled down his eye, Corporal Carla Bruce assummed command and ordered them to take off after the light mech detatchment, which seemed to have drawn the attention of two IS mechs.

"To the north, ready the launchers, those di*kheads need our help, we'll deal with this jacka** later." The two privates dragged James into the infantry bay and threw him in and continued on with the orders.

Carla barked orders to the rest of the lance into the comms and the rest of Scorpio lance joined in the movement.

Tens of missiles flew over the bobbing form of a Centurion and smashed into the closest Mist Lynx, caving in the cockpit while the rest spashed across the shoulders of the now lifeless mech.

"Keep your eyes out for Elementals, they should be closing in on the back half of the convoy."

[Spokes]

Tourism Drive 6
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 06:31 Hrs

The thick, green smoke hung heavy in the still morning air, mixing with dust from the road surface and cutting visibility to a few dozen meters The roar and rattle of combustion engines came from all around as the convoy rushed forward through the gloom. Every so often, the drone of the engines was punctuated by the distinctive, terrible sound of ground cars smashing into each other.

Ida Roecken clung to the back of the news truck, bracing herself in the open hatchway as the driver wove his way through the press of the convoy. She tried her best to ignore the acrid smoke, left eye screwed shut against the burn of it, right eye pressed firmly into the viewfinder of the tri-vid camera slung over her shoulder. Vasco was probably having a field day with his sound gear, but the soup they were driving through made it almost impossible to see anything. She ground her teeth in frustration as the van bounced through a divot in the road, coughed out a lungful of the foul air and settled the camera back on her shoulder.

An autocannon thundered off to the east, followed immediately by an explosion that rocked the truck, the heat of the blast searing the exposed skin on her face. Ida ignored it, knew the light from the sunrise would blind her camera, focused instead on the sounds of battle raging west of them. Nothing to see in that direction either, just smoke and dust and the occasional flash of light. . .

There!! She zeroed in on the dull glow of jump jets, catching the BattleMech in her viewfinder just as it cleared the pall of smoke. The machine, a Phoenix Hawk by the look of it, hung briefly at the apex of its jump. Sunlight gleamed off the armor, the smoke wreathing the 'Mech's legs giving it an almost ethereal aura. The Hawk pivoted as it started its descent, the sun catching the canopy as it turned into the light. Twin lasers flashed from the extended arms, the cerulean beams cast in sharp relief as they stabbed into the haze, tracking some unseen target. Ida released the breath she had been holding, the camera tracking downwards as the BattleMech disappeared into the gloom. She inhaled, choked on the putrid smoke, her eyes tearing up from the sting of it. She didn't care, would have laughed if she could have stopped coughing. Those scant seconds of footage might have just made the whole trip worth it. . .

There was a sudden, clipped curse from the cab behind her, and Ida found herself thrown back into the truck as the driver slammed on the brakes. She hit hard, clutching her precious camera as the van came to a sliding halt on the unpaved surface. The jackhammer of 'Mech footfalls pounded through the small compartment as a Clan Wolf Dasher cut a sharp turn directly in front of them and then blasted back they way they had come, the odd looking machine building speed at an incredible rate. Ida had the camera in her lap, shooting blind out through the open door. A new sound now, the ripping sound of missiles, the light from their exhaust blindingly bright in the back of the truck. A half dozen quick spaced explosions, the rattle of shrapnel in the compartment, a screech of metal as the Dasher's right leg tore free of its housing, the boom of the machine falling, the sickening, grinding rasp of the skid, the bone jarring THUD as the stricken 'Mech slammed into a large oak tree. Ida had a brief moment of panic as her mind processed the sound of the shrapnel, her hands and eyes running over her camera looking for damage.

"Are you hit?" Nicholas' voice sounded very far away, though the man was practically standing on top of her. She realized her ears were ringing.

"What? No, the camera's fine! Did you see that?"

"You're hit! Your arm!" Ida looked down, saw flecks of red where the sleeve of her jacket had been shredded. Hmm. She flopped the arm around a bit, flexed her hand. It didn't look too bad, wasn't bleeding all that much. Sure, it would probably hurt like hell when the adrenaline wore off, but whatever.

She'd just made bankroll.

________________________________________________________________

Geneviève stared after the missile contrails, followed the giant furrow in the road with her eyes until it disappeared in the smoke and dust. The Wolf MechWarrior had turned right into her line of fire and Geneviève had obliged, reflexively triggering all of her weapons long before her computer had registered the hostile 'Mech. There was a flash of worry over that, firing blind without verifying the target first, the ever present specter of friendly fire in poor visibility. She allowed herself a moment of introspection as the Assassin started limping in the direction of the downed machine, decided the 'Mech's goofy looking arms had been distinctive enough to justify the shot, even through the haze. No Inner Sphere 'Mech had arms like that, certainly none of the models travelling with the convoy. The wash of relief was sudden, welcome after the shock and fear of combat. It hit her then that she'd just scored her first kill.

Well, maybe. The Assassin lurched forward on its bad leg. That other Wolf thought the same, no? Best to be sure.

She lined her BattleMech up on the furrow in the road, brought her speed up as much as she dared, the damage to the leg making the Assassin painfully slow. A vehicle came up the road towards her, eased wide to pass on her left side. A civilian truck, antenna, the dish of a satellite uplink. The smoke seemed thicker now, the visibility getting worse as the sun crept higher. She couldn't see the oak tree anymore, couldn't see much of anything, really. Just the furrow in the road, bits of metal. Geneviève pulled the Assassin to a stop next to the OmniMech's severed leg, kept the crosshairs pointed forward into the smoke. That should settle it, but. . .

She gripped the control sticks, squinted into the haze. Please be dead. . .

Movement in the smoke ahead, just shadows at first, and then blind, primal fear as the shapes resolved themselves.

Toads!

There were four of them, at least that she could see. They turned towards her and Geneviève knew she was finished, no chance to escape this time. The controls were sluggish as she forced the Assassin to take one wrenching step to the side, putting the machine between the toads and the receding truck. The elementals came forward in a fast trot, spreading out as they advanced, one long leap on their jets and they would be on her.

It was over.
________________________________________________________________

The Elemental raced forward, hopping over the entangled remains of the felled oak and shattered Fire Moth, picking up speed with each elongated stride. A few seconds were all that was needed to bring the target into jump range, and then the suit's jets were alight, throwing the Elemental up, forward and then down on her unsuspecting target.

Klaudia led with her knees, landed hard on the warrior's back, the claw on her left hand punching into and then through her opponent's armor suit. She rolled free of the dead Wolf Elemental, her momentum carrying her away into the haze. . .

________________________________________________________________

It took Geneviève a moment to register what had happened, confusion as one of the approaching Elementals rolled off its now dead companion and joined the rush towards her. What were they doing, competing for the right to kill her? The newcomer took three more steps at a full run, caught up to another of the Wolf Elementals, spun it around midstride with its claw and then fired its arm mounted laser directly into the suit's face plate. The others began reacting, turning back towards the newcomer.

Geneviève's mind clicked. The bondsman! She swung the crosshair for the torso mounted weapons left, tripped the SRM launcher. The missiles didn't hit anything, but blast knocked the two remaining hostile Elementals back and put up a plume of debris between them and the bondsman. Klaudia pivoted, leapt through the airborne dirt and tackled one of the Wolf Elementals, the two of them rolling away into the haze. The second Wolf Elemental turned to follow, and Geneviève caught it in the back with her laser. It too tumbled out of sight, wounded or dead, she couldn't say which.

The sounds of battle gradually shifted westward, nothing to see through the smoke. The Assassin stood in the road, adding its own smoke to the cloud. A few more vehicles appeared from south and Geneviève waved them on with her 'Mech's good arm, her own role in this battle seemingly at an end.

[K0M3D14N]

What a rush. Outnumbered, outgunned, undermanned, and overmatched. Lawerence couldn't be any happier than he was at this exact moment. Every fiber of his being felt alive and his entire body was tingling. There was something about being this close to death, literally feeling the son of a b!tch breathing down your neck, that made him feel alive. There were times that Lawrence wondered if something was wrong with him for loving the sensation so much- if there was something deep within the recesses of his psychological makeup that was damaged if not outright broken.

This was, in fact, not one of those times. Lawrence cued up his comms. "Wolf, Comedian. Sweep the convoy, help clear out those little guys." His Commando rattled around him as he pushed the throttle further forward- 96.2 km/h. A standard Commando's top speed, and just slow enough to be an enticing target for the presumably greedy Clan pilots. Their pride had been wounded (along with a few of their pilots, heh) and that would make them eager for revenge. Fortunately, that also tended to make people exceptionally stupid. "I'm going to see how well these pups can dance. And how well you can shoot." He didn't wait for an affirmative or for a reply- there was simply too much damn fun to be had.

One of the small 'Mechs had been taken down somewhere in and around the rear of the convoy, obscured by the thick plumes of smoke. The other two had decided, apparently, to stay closer to the outskirts. They were fast, sure, but he knew he was faster. They didn't. Lawrence's hand was shaking on the throttle and he was itching to unleash twenty five tons of glorious fury but the time was not right. Not yet. He trained his pipper on the nearest 'Mech- it was a little bit taller than its remaining companion.

"Hey, tiny!" he broadcast out over every channel he could. "I don't like your face!" He squeezed the trigger and watched with glee as two emerald beams of light streaked across the battlefield and cut right across the 'Mech's midsection. Sure, he could have been more clever but that would have required thought. No time for that. Lawrence was sure that would get the Clanner's attention at the very least. Now he could initiate phase two of his brilliant scheme.

Come up with phase two.

Hopefully, he could draw the Clanner in and make him an easier target for Bud. Failing that, he always had the option of running really fast- directly at the nearest available foe, of course. There was something to be considered for staying alive, and that meant staying out of the line of the ever so ironically named 'friendly fire.' While he was certain that he'd be able to handle whatever the Clanner dished out, Lawrence was sure the Clanner could say the same of him. He'd need Bud's firepower and hoped she was still as good a shot as he remembered.

As the Koshi turned toward the newfound object of its ire, Lawrence juked hard to the left and squeezed the trigger again. He was just outside of optimal range and it was difficult to accurately hit his target from here so he had to settle for just raking his lasers across the center and side torsos as best he could. The gap closed quickly between the two nimble 'Mechs as they exchanged volleys of lasers, juked, dodged, and danced their way across the battlefield toward each other.

Edited by K0M3D14N, 16 January 2014 - 09:21 PM.

[Sparks Murphey]

Tourism Drive 6
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051, 06:31

With a grimace, Star Commander Warren realised that his nova would not be achieving any more of their goals in this engagement. The elementals had strewn havok through the vehicles, and he had seen a few of the enemy ‘Mechs take crippling blows. It would force the enemy commander to either abandon troops or slow down, hindering the rally. However, the loss of two of his own ‘Mechs was starting to tilt the balance in the favour of the Spheroids. It was time to withdraw.

“Clan forces, disengage, reform at Juliet,” he ordered.

“Neg, Commander,” Freja replied, “I almost have this Commando.”

“Neg, MechWarrior, leave him be and reform at Juliet.”

“Sir! He insulted my genetic legacy!”

Warren considered for a moment. “What did he actually say?”

“He said he did not like my face!”

“Disengage NOW, Freja, and reform at Juliet, you useless surat!” Warren snarled.

Her Mist Lynx finally turned away from the enemy Commando. “I shall bring this discussion to the attention of the Star Captain, Commander,” she spat.


***


Redwall Fort
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051, 07:03

Eight hundred years ago, Redwall Fort had been an asset to the rebels who had declared their independence from the Terran Alliance. Situated between Saddleport and New Cartris, it was an ideal bolt hole for the guerilla tactics employed against General Luchesi and the 2nd Interstellar Strategic Combined Assault Force who were dispatched to retake the world. The “fort” itself consisted of a number of camouflaged plasteel palisades hugging the overhangs of a narrow, winding gully. A trust had been set up to maintain the location in it’s original condition, though with some allowances to encourage considerate tourists such as the coach park. For the outside, the only obvious indications that it was there was there were the craggy dirt path snaking up to it from the highway, and the bright sign welcoming tourists at the turn-off, which Adrianna ordered removed as they passed it.

The coach parking space was abuzz with activity. One of the infantry squads had found a stash of souvenir camo-print picnic blankets and hammocks in the gift shop, and though they weren’t ideal, they were better than nothing for air cover. A trooper now clung to the front of Adrianna’s Phoenix Hawk, pinning a blanket into place over her machine’s shoulder as it stood the first watch. The meagre parking space was packed with machines and hurrying people, working to conceal their presence, repair damage, and get the wounded to safety.

In a way, the Clans had done them a favour. Adrianna struggled to see how they would have fit the remaining vehicles that lay in smoking ruin on the highway. Of course, there were heavy casualties among the convoy, and many of those who hadn’t been injured had been forced walk across country to get to the Fort, and weren’t expected to arrive for another half hour. With any luck, they’d make it here without being spotted; a fight here, with all the vehicles packed in so tightly, would be a blood bath. Exactly the sort of strategy the rebels, forced to use swords and shields against armour, would have planned for.

She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the smell of sweat, smoke and burnt flesh that still lingered from the earlier battle, and focused on doing another visual check of her sensors. Four more hours to go until she could sleep.

[Thom Frankfurt]

Redwall Fort
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051, 18:29

The Great Turtle was dead. Ryan knew that with every fiber of his being, but he was still coming to grips that The Great Ridgeback Tortoise of Andor was in fact a dump truck. Ryan was in reality struggling with the events of the last several hours since getting his leg shot full of an overdose or synthetic morphine, even as he limped his way along the strange spongy gravel path.

No. It's gravel, not chopped up sponge.

Struggling with the after effects, he turned his attention away from the spon-gravel and looked at the passing trees, all looking on emotionlessly with his Uncle's face. With a sigh he readjusted the crutch under his arm, reminding himself that it the wood was a gnarled branch cut from a Alder a few miles up the road, and not some strange petrified snake staff.

Silva and Cooper were walking alongside him silently, their waxy maggot faces gone but still an sickly pale color. Now that he thought about it, everything seemed to be an odd hued light. Every color stood out highlighted. Grimacing he looked upon the structure ever slowly nearing, and old fort, brooding and intimidating, holding the promise of shelter and rest even if for only momentarily, he just hoped there was enough time to have a proper doctor take a look at his wound and maybe patch him together or at least give him a proper dosage to keep him from tripping balls.

"We fight..." We muttered to himself as he turned his attention back to the sponge-gravel and hoofed onward.

Edited by Thom Frankfurt, 09 February 2014 - 03:25 PM.

[Spokes]

Redwall Fort
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 07:25 Hrs

Roughly fifteen minutes after her Assassin had unceremoniously hobbled into Redwall Fort, Geneviève had abandoned the stricken machine to the care of the technicians and started hunting for buried treasure.

It hadn't taken her long to find what she was looking for.

Nearly ten years ago, Gen and a few dozen of her schoolmates had visited Redwall as part of a local university program. There had been a group of archaeologists on hand to explain the significance of the site, but there had also been a shady group of "entrepreneurs" who had set up a small carnival just outside the fort in a spirited effort to part the tourists from their money.

She'd known better than to get on that ride, had finally been shamed into it by the operator. It'd taken ten long minutes before she'd finally gotten sick, the carny and his friends laughing all the while.

She'd made a scene of course, like only a teenager can. The organizers of the trip had been aghast, no doubt fearing an angry reprisal from her parents. Justifiably, as it would turn out. Geneviève had been quietly whisked into the hidden back areas of the small visitor's center and allowed to clean up in privacy.

It was strange how the universe worked.

The tiny shower had been cobbled together for the benefit of the workers and researchers who labored to maintain Redwall Fort. The room was dark, dank, little more than a concrete closet with a drain in the floor and spigot up near the ceiling. The floor was cold, the air heavy with mildew, but ten minutes of blessedly hot water had melted away her fatigue and restored a sense of normalcy to her person.

At the very least, she no longer smelled like a latrine.

Geneviève finished lacing her boots, stood slowly against the ache of the deep bruises that were forming in the exact shape of the Assassin's safety harness. She shrugged on her coat, did up the buttons, the Lyran blue and off-white ensemble hovering somewhere between a field and a dress uniform that hinted at but failed to comply with LCAF military regulations. There was no rank insignia, the only decoration beyond the House Steiner crest on the shoulder was a medallion made from polished sandstone that had been lovingly worked into the shape of a cooling tower. Flecks in the stone caught the light and sparkled faintly as Gen moved to discard the souvenir hand towels she'd used to dry her hair.

Stepping out onto the visitor center's porch brought a lingering and unwelcome sense of déjà vu, old memories from that warm summer night bleeding into the realities of this cool autumn morning. She had learned much later that the carny who had tormented her lived on her parent's land hold. He had recognized her and had, so the story went, sought retribution against her parents when the opportunity had presented itself. She had of course exaggerated the tale for dramatic effect, painting the carnival worker in the worst possible light, not knowing the damage that would be wrought by her careless words. Her parents had subsequently evicted the man and his family in the middle of the night, eventually flattening the small house and erecting a sad little playground in its place that no one ever used. That warm summer night had haunted her for the last ten years, but now that she had been forcibly evicted from her home, the injustice of it cut her like an open wound.

It was strange how the universe worked. Geneviève stepped off the porch and vowed to do better this time. And when this was all over and they had driven the wolves from their world, Geneviève promised herself that she would seek out that man and find a way to make things right.

Edited by Spokes, 13 February 2014 - 03:25 PM.

[Spokes]

Redwall Fort
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 08:30 Hrs

"Give Violet a turn now, yes?"

The little girl snatched the medallion away, waved it about without really looking at it, burbled out, "Vi-o-lett-AH!", the last syllable offered up as though it were the answer to all of life's questions.

"Why does it look like a lampshade?"

There were a dozen of them, ragged, tired children all, gathered beneath one of the rock overhangs inside the fort proper. They'd walked the last few miles to the Fort after their hovertruck seized up in the middle of the road. None were wearing clothes suited for hiking or cold weather, and while most still seemed to think they were on some sort of adventure the ordeal of the previous night had taken a toll. Geneviève had taken over for their caretaker, sending the exhausted woman off to see to her blistered feet.

"That is not a lampshade, it is a cooling tower, see?" She eased the medallion away from Violetta, who promptly turned her attention to a rock lying nearby. "Like the ones on the power station near Saddleport."

"That's a lampshade!" Gen frowned, looked down at the sandstone emblem. It. . .did look a bit like a lampshade.

"What're the funny words on it?"

"L'Ordre du Linceul Brûlant. That is French, yes? It means, 'The Order of the Searing Shroud'." Confused looks, but at least she had their attention.

"When the Lyran Commonwealth drove the Dragon from Sevren, the wicked men in the service of the Combine sabotaged the reactor building near New Cartris, and almost caused a meltdown. Do you know what that is?" Shaking heads. Gen started to continue, then realized she didn't truly know what it meant herself. "It is like. . .a really bad fire. A poisonous fire. A fire that could have destroyed all of New Cartris. The Dragon's men had broken all of the tools the Commonwealth could have used to put the fire out, so men with shovels, water hoses and cement mixers tried to fight the fire with their bare hands. But they could not put the fire all the way out, so they covered it with sand and built a concrete shroud that kept the fire from escaping and hurting New Cartris."

"The men with the shovels were very brave, but the poison from the fire made them very sick. The Commonwealth commissioned an order of knights to honor those men, but all save one died from the poison before they could be knighted."

"Did you fight the fire?"

Gen blinked. "No, everyone who fought the fire died. . ."

"Did you fight the Dragon?" Hopeful looks.

"Well, no, but. . ." The looks of disappointment cut more than they probably should have. One of the older boys spoke up, "Can we see your sword?"

Her mind went to the polished sidearm still tucked away in the Assassin's tiny storage locker. "I do not have a sword."

"You can't be a knight without a sword!" Several nods of agreement.

"I have a BattleMech, that's much bet. . ."

"You're a MechWarrior? Can we see it? Can we huh?"

She looked from one little face to the next. "If you are very good and promise not to bother the technicians, we can go look at the 'Mechs."

Geneviève was practically pulled to her feet by the sudden surge of enthusiasm. She scooped Violetta up and started towards the fort's parking lot. "Stay together now!"

_____________________________________________________

They received a few sidelong looks from the posted sentries, but none of them seemed worried enough to risk having to deal with the gaggle of children. Gen's Assassin was lying on its back in the middle of the parking lot, sharing the space with a battered Helepolis. She pointed out the various models, making sure to be ready with an interesting tidbit whenever the group looked inclined to wander off.

"And that one over there is mine. The technicians are cleaning it up after the battle this morning."

"Does your 'Mech have a sword?"

Gen allowed herself a laugh, shifted the little girl over to her other hip. "BattleMechs do not need swords."

"That one over there has an axe!"

She turned to follow the out thrust finger. "So it does."

"Axes are kinda like swords, right? I bet that one is a knight!"

Gen looked down at the boy. "BattleMechs are swords. They are as much symbols as weapons for the knights and soldiers that pilot them."

There was a sudden wash of shouting from the techs, drawing the attention of the entire group. Gen looked up just as a heart-rending shriek of metal on metal sounded out over the repair area. A torrent of reddish lubricant blasted from the Assassin as its right leg shuddered and dropped away from the savaged hip joint. Geneviève could only stare in horror, her heart caught in her throat as the partially connected limb settled at an angle it was obviously never meant to see.

Violetta shifted in her arms and burbled quietly, "You broked your sword."

[Thom Frankfurt]

Redwall Fort
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051, 18:39

Unfortunately for Ryan the promise of shelter and rest was dashed upon the rocks as he dragged his weary body into the stronghold with a limp. He looked on through a haze of phosphorous dust mites swimming lazily through the air at the scene of tents being struck and vehicles idling while being loaded up for the next leg of their trip. Grumbling he looked over towards the still waxy completed Silva and flame haired Cooper.

"See if you guys can get your grubby hands on some supplies, and then some hot chow. I'm going to see if I can find any Doc's around to take a look as this," he almost added diaphanous python coiled about his leg. "Wound of mine..." he added as an afterthought before limping on towards were the tents were being stricken and prepared for travel.

After was seemed like hours of asing waxy faced maggot men for directions to what served as an aid station Ryan found himself limping on up towards a gore splattered apron wearing surgeon who turned to measure the Thorinite with a cool stare.

"Hey Doc, You got time to take a look at this?" Ryan asked while lifting his leg with a grimace. The man nodded and motioned towards a stack of empty plastic medical crates. "Take a seat." The man offered before taking his time to poke and prod away as the puckered shrapnel wound. While doing his best to not look at the puckered ouchie or how 'Doc' seemed to be rooting around in it. Ryan stared onward straight ahead focusing on a small group of familiar looking men in pilot jumpsuits.

King flight?

[Listless Nomad]

“Good kill Smokey.”
“Roger that Bandit. King Four, follow us on the next pass. Maintain formation, and keep low. We’re going to be approaching the ridge from oh….2 o’clock.”

“Roger King Three. Watch for fire from the tree line, 9 o’clock.”

“Cougar, we got Elementals, 12 o’clock.”

“Confirmed Panther. Firing. Guns. Guns. Guns.”


“King Three…I’ve got something to your right side…can’t quite-“

“BREAK! BREAK!”

Redwall Fort
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 0900 Hrs

It was the screaming that woke him. The endless screaming. Forcing his eyes open, Constantin stared for a moment at the sky, focusing on the peacefulness of it. The world was different up there. Up there, the war did not exist, death did not exist, loss did not exist. Up there was peace. Around him, he could hear the comings and goings of what remained of the convoy, but he had no energy left for them. Reluctantly, he turned his head to once again find himself staring at the mangled remains of King Three’s nose.

A clan PPC had shot out from the darkness and cleaved the nose of the two-person attack chopper from its body. Constantin and the rest of King Flight listened as “Smokey,” their friend, their protector for countless missions, screamed himself hoarse over the loss of his lower body. No one could bring himself or herself to switch off the channel, to abandon their friend, even symbolically, in his last moments.

Groaning from the exertion and the stiff joints, Constantin managed to stand himself up, and began the lonely task of assessing the status of what was left of his unit. Technicians and a few infantry volunteers had already begun the process of siphoning the remaining aviation fuel from King Three into King Four. Mercifully, Smokey had been promptly removed from the remains of the chopper and buried outside the fort, and one of the civilians had thrown a souvenir blanket over the ruin of the cockpit. The rest of his crew were sleeping fitfully, none of them able to truly rest amidst the noise and the memories. Eventually all that remained was King Three. He walked slowly towards the chopper, taking care to avoid the bustling techs and mechanics that were sprinting to and fro inside the fort, desperate to salvage what they could after the battle. Upon reaching it, he let out a sigh and crouched down next to the man sitting motionless next to the helicopter.

“Hey buddy.”

No one could imagine what it was like for “Bandit.” Forced to see, and hear, his friend die in front of him. Forced to bear witness to his last moments and then be forced to fly for hours more inside of an impromptu wind tunnel; no one blamed him. With a frown, Constantin noted that Bandit had not moved since they had landed, sitting on the ground next to his chopper, his head in his hands. At first, they had tried to comfort him, to get him to eat something or sleep, but all efforts were met with stony silence. It was not anger, or indifference, or spitefulness, but simply an inability to notice them.

“How are you feeling bud? Can I get you anything?” He waited for a few moments, but failed to notice any kind of recognition or response. Constantin’s words were met with complete ignorance. Frowning, Constantin stood and gave his friend a pat on the head and a gentle squeeze of the shoulder. For the time being, Bandit was no longer with them, and they were going to have to accept it.

Redwall Fort
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 1150 Hrs

Constantin couldn’t understand why the elephant was so happy. Despite standing in the middle of a novelty fast food restaurant, Constantin couldn’t get it out of his head that the friendly mascot seemed out of place amidst a planet burning down around him.

Shouldn't he be at least a little upset?

A gentle slap on the shoulder brought him back to the real world.
“Hey Voodoo…get your game face on buddy. They are here.”

Still somewhat glassy eyed, Constantin slowly turned around to see the concerned look on his co pilot’s face. “Keep it together buddy. We need you on this one.”

Constantin gave a halfhearted smirk and clapped his friend on the back.

“No worries Jester. You’re not rid of me yet.” The worry did not leave “Jester” Macnulty’s face, but he nodded curtly and took his place at the table, as the rest of the bedraggled infantry and civilian volunteers slowly took their places. Mustering what authority he had left, Constantin cleared his throat and addressed the assembled group.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Leftenant Semyonov, and I am in command of what is left of King Flight. Leftenant Delfino has requested that I assist in procuring vehicles from the local area to replace what we lost during the ambush overnight. I’m told that all of you have volunteered to assist in this endeavor.”

A smattering of nods and general murmur was the best he was going to get. Everyone was simply too exhausted to do otherwise.

“As it stands currently, we’ll dust off in approximately ten minutes and begin a ten kilometer search radius. Teams of four will be dropped at probably vehicle locations and will make their own way back to the fort. It goes without saying that your primary objective should be to avoid contact with Clan patrols, and to avoid any semblance of an engagement. We won't have any cover out there, and if we are discovered its all over. As it stands, volunteers are authorized to commandeer and seize any suitable vehicles, using any and all force necessary excluding lethal force.” Constantin paused for a moment to gather himself. “I want to emphasize that last point. In the last twenty four hours, I’ve lost half my command, watched five of my best friends die, and listened to a sixth scream himself hoarse as his guts fell out. We’ve all lost friends, loved ones, brothers and sisters. It’s a crappy situation, in a crappy day, in a crappy war. It’s not our right, nor our duty to take it out on the civilian population. Don’t forget that they will most likely be trapped here after we’re gone, and that you might be trying to take the only way for them to get food to feed their family.” Constantin closed his eyes for a moment and then continued. “Nothing in war comes easily, and no situation will ever go exactly how you want it to. All I can ask is that you use your heads. Now, go and gather your belongings, and we’ll meet at the chopper in eight minutes. Dismissed.”

10km from Redwall Fort
Whitecrown Foothills, Sevren
Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
20th November, 3051 -- 1450 Hrs

For the final time that day, Constantin waited to hear the final click of the ramp closing before pushing down on the collective and started the huge helicopter clawing skyward. One of the civilians turned and waved as they took off, and Constantin could only manage a half smile. The exhaustion from the constant flying over the past few days was catching up to him, and he had nothing left in the tank. Throughout the day, the comms onboard the chopper had been silent. Only reports of “all clear” or “ramp up” penetrated the quiet, giving the mission an eerie quality it did not deserve. Gone were the jokes between King 2 and King 1, the buzzing of the two protective Warrior attack choppers. Gone were the jokes between the crew, the banter between Lockheart and the boys. Constantin even missed the distraction the reporter had provided. All that remained now was the rhythmic thumping of the rotors, and the gentle hiss of static coming from the radio.

Turning towards his co pilot, Constantin’s voice was weary with exhaustion.

“Think most of them will make it back to the fort?” Jester looked at Constantin, and then looked down for a moment. His voice was solemn.

“I really hope so.”

Constantin nodded slowly and then looked toward the horizon. The planet burned.

Edited by Listless Nomad, 03 October 2014 - 04:42 AM.