>>1567595
> Male
> The Heavy

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>>1567595
Reboot? Fair enough.

>Female
Might as well go female again.

>The Demolitionist
Pic related.

>>1567595
> The Engineer

I dont give a shit about gender. Pansexual fortifications are my fetish.

>>1567595
>> Male
> The Engineer

>>1567647
Second

>>1567607
>>1567646
>>1567647
>>1567701

>Male
>The Engineer

Writing.

We
>planning and digging trenches
now lads

>>1567595

Stepping through the doorway to the Assignment Office of the GDC's local Conscription Center, you sigh with relief as you see the line to the officers that will determine your fate grow shorter and shorter. It would be good to get this over. Didn't hurt to get out of the rain, either, at least for now.

As you approach the military doctors for examination, a broad, hard-looking battleaxe of a woman, holding a clipboard, approaches you, holding it out for you to take.

"Give your signature and ID number, and date of registration." Complying, you barely catch her muttering, as she turns away,

"...Christ, what have we come to now.... just a kid..."

Signing with the pen attatched to the clipboard with a string, you hand it back, and move forward in the line, ready to face your fate.

-----------

The ever-present Galvean rain pours down on the Galvean Defense Corps’ 328th Forward Training Camp, soaking you, and chilling you to the bone.

You stand on the landing pad next to fifty other young men and women, not that much older or younger than you, dressed in fatigues, and hair cut short, in military fashion.

Looking around, you see no sign of the Sergeant who was supposed to be in charge of your platoon's training. Where is he? You thought that he was supposed to be waiting for you on the landing pad, but for some reason he is nowhere to be found. Your future platoon mates, agitated by virtue of being soaked by the heavy, pouring rain, begin to mutter impatiently, even voicing their dissent quite loudly.

You, however, don't, because you notice something. The pilot of the dropship that took you here from the Conscription Center.... he's.... grinning?

"Well, now that I know how you REALLY feel, we can begin, cunts!"

..... Oh, shit.

-------------

The last few weeks have been hell. When you were assigned the position of engineer, (because of your high grades in relevant classes in the State school,) you thought that you would be put into courses on maintenance and repair for vehicles and weapons, and the like. Instead, you've been digging trenches and helping build fortifications for weeks. When you asked, an engineer who was supervising you and your fellow cadets simply shrugged, and in between lazy breaths from his cigarette, said something about 'hands-on learning.'

Hefting the bag of permacrete, grumbling, you poured the quick-drying, yet still incredibly strong building material in the mold for the foundation, and tossed the bag, now empty, aside. Heading back to the stack, you grabbed another bag, and began the process anew.

Admittedly, you think, you have learned quite a bit from the engineers about maintenance and repair, but not as much as you'd like. They taught you how to fire a rifle as well, smiling and slapping you on the back every time you got a good shot on the range, and earnestly encouraging you every time you missed.

>>1567784

But... all of that soon changed.

The next day, at muster, your Sergeant told your troop that they would be heading to the Front, the planet-wide line of defense against the Foe, as a support battalion (you vaguely remember one of the engineers referring to support battalions as 'grinder meat,' but you forget which one,) for the Galvean 168th Light Armor Division, a mixed mechanized infantry battalion.

Where were you assigned?

>A bog, where the 168th had become stuck in the difficult terrain.
>A ruined city, where the 168th was pinned down.
>Somewhere out in the hills of the West Bank, across the river that was but five miles away from your training camp.
>Write-in.

>>1567803
>Somewhere out in the hills of the West Bank, across the river that was but five miles away from your training camp.

Trenches are hard to dig in those other places

>>1567822
>This

>>1567803
>A ruined city, where the 168th was pinned down.
Urban warfare is best warfare.

>>1567838
Second

>>1567803
>>A ruined city, where the 168th was pinned down.

>>1567866
>>1567860
>>1567838

>A ruined city, where the 168th was pinned down.

Writing.

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>>1567803

What are you getting into?

You sit in a dropship, surrounded by your troop, your peers talking among themselves, quietly, with a grim look on their faces. They seem to realize what they're going into. Adjusting the collar of your olive-drab fatigues, and pulling the jacket closer around you, you stare down at the floor of the dropship cabin.

Your introspection is suddenly broken by Ernest Fries, a rambunctious kid, two years younger than you at the age of sixteen, nudging you in the ribs.

"Right, Alex, right? Say yes, c'mon!"

You shake your head, and give him a faint smile.

"Sorry, Ernie, I wasn't listening. What was that?"

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Ernest says, "What's up with you, Alex? You aren't usually this spacey. Anyways, I was telling Jack and Lara here that we're sure to push the enemy back!"

Gesturing animatedly, and looking like an excited puppy, he looks at you, smiling face out of place in the dingy dropship bay.

"I mean, we've been fighting for, what, eighteen years now? We've gotta be close to victory now! We're probably gonna be the final push against whatever we're fighting out there!" Everyone around you shares a knowing look with each other. That's not true, but nobody has the heart to tell him otherwise.

"Well... Ernie-"

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH

Before you can say anything, you feel the dropship shudder around you, as if struck by something. Looking around frantically, you see a giant metal claw, ripping through the roof, and frantically try and unbuckle your harness.

Peeling back the armored hull of the aircraft, the claw reveals a gigantic metal thing perching on the top, which reaches in with one of it's other arms, grabbing Ernest with a crushing grip, and ripping him from his seat next to you, tossing him out.

The last thing you remember before getting thrown from your seat by the thing is the click of your harness finally giving, the report of an exploding engine, and the feeling of the dropship falling from beneath you.

-------------------------------------------------------

When you come to, the first thing you notice is the lack of feeling in your legs. Struggling to push yourself up, slipping against... concrete, you see that they're both twisted at impossible angles. Oh. They're broken.

A sudden sharp pain as you breathe in informs you that several of your ribs are broken as well. At least your arms work.

Why is everything so blurry? It's pouring down rain, yes, but... the answer evades you. It's... hard to think.

What do you do?
>Write-in
>Roll a D20, BO3.

Rolled 18 (1d20)

>>1567960
>Check your head for bleeding

Rolled 1 (1d20)

>>1567960
Check the radio to see if there a unit nearby

Rolled 3 (1d20)

>>1567981
This. Good roll, btw

>>1567982
>>1567989
Thanks

Rolled 14 (1d20)

>>1567981
This.

>>1567982
Oh fuck.

>>1567981
>>1567982

>Check head for bleeding
>Check radio

>>1567982
>1

Fucking RIP.

Writing.

>>1568011
He's dead jim, unless Athinar doesn't count it cause others voted on first dudes write in.

>>1567981
Seconding.

Gotta check that most important organ.

>>1568020
I messed up that roll. But think about it this way. There more of us to reconstruct, ergo, more enhancement.

>>1568071
Can we be a brain in a jar? I wanna be a brain in a jar.

>>1568078
You want to be an obscure DC villain of an obscure DC team of heroes

Rolled 14 (1d20)

Awh man, my first quest and we already died. Amazing.

>>1568084
No. I just reread Atomic Robo and one of the main villains is a brain in a jar that pilots mechs and stuff.

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>>1567960

You shakily raise your hands to your forehead, and they come away with blood. Woozy at the sight of your own blood covering your hands, you blink the rain (and blood) out of your eyes, staring up at the sky.

Fuck.

Shuddering with terror, you begin to hyperventilate, and start to curl into the fetal position before a small cracking sound from your ribs and legs informs you, even through the dull haze of your concussion, (you're pretty sure you have one,) that that is a bad idea.

Crying out with pain, you lie flat on the ground, and take small breaths of air through your nose, so you don't drown in the heavy rain. Reaching to your side, you grab your radio, and frantically push the button, hoping for help, any help. But your only response is static, and a small spark coming from the device, shocking your fingers.

Slipping from your (now-shaking) grasp, the radio clatters against the pavement, and you curse, loudly, and quite often.

Unfortunately, this makes your head situation worse, and your words are ever dimmer, even to yourself, and you quite promptly black out.

---------------------------------------------

".... Fuck- body on the pavement there!"

"He's got a pulse! C'mon, grab him!"

Opening your eyes groggily, you look up to see two soldiers of the 168th Light Armor Division, the group that your troop was sent to assist, looking down at you.

"Hey kid, you hear me?"

The soldier, while giving you some of his attention, frantically looks around, pointing his gun at every shadow in the rain that could possibly be a Foe.

Coughing, and spitting out some blood, you look up at him, and say, "Yeah- cough cough cough"

Breaking into a hacking fit is good enough for him.

"Alright, I'm going to pick you up, okay? We've got a Crawler tank a block away, you'll be safe there!"

Nodding, you grunt with pain as the man accidentally nudges your broken ribs, but you soldier through it, and don't complain about the fireman's carry, even though each step the soldier takes sends a lash of pain into your chest.

Looking behind you, you see something... dark against the backdrop of the rain. .... What?

What's that?

>"Look out!"
>"Get down!"
>"Foe!"

>>1568123
>"Get down!"

>>1568123
>>"Get down!"

>>1568123

>"Look Out!"

>>1568128
>>1568130

>"Get down!"

Writing.

>>1568123

"Geddown!"

You manage to shout, despite your concussion, warning the two soldiers. They whip around on instinct, the one carrying you raising his sidearm in a practiced motion, and the other, his battle rifle. Managing to get off a few shots, you see them simply get deflected by the machine's armor plating.

Ignoring the shots, the machine lunges forward with its' claw, catching the soldier firing the rifle, and shredding his armor, spears him through the chest.

"No!!!"

With a cry of rage, the soldier carrying you opens up with his machine pistol, but it doesn't do much more than annoy the machine.

Tossing the other soldier's body aside, the metal monstrosity sweeps his arm at the soldier carrying you, slamming into him with an audible crunch. Falling onto the ground, not too far away from the soldier's corpse, you stare up at the machine in terror.

Approaching you ponderously, as if savoring the moment, the being shakes the gore off its' claw, spraying it on your face. Letting you stare at the claw for a few seconds, the machine makes a sound for the first time.

-click- *Hrrrrrrrn- hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrn-hrrrrrrrrn* -click-

It's laughing at you.

Letting you process this information, it rams its claw into your gut, destroying your bowels.

Briefly struggling against the machine, trying to pull its' claw out, you cough up blood as it makes its' way through your body, eventually piercing your lower back. Giving up on escaping, you grab the dead soldier's gun, and coughing up blood, fire wildly into it's 'head'.

"WHY-"

BLAM

"ARE-"

BLAM

"YOU-"

BLAM

"DOING-

click

Throwing the gun at the machine's head, you pull yourself forward, to the end of the claw. Glaring hatefully at the machine's cold 'eyes', you spit at the metal being, blood spraying across its' 'face'.

Surprised at the sudden activity from you, the machine made a confused clicking noise, before shaking you off its' claw, flinging you to the side.

Your vision going black, you have enough strength to flip it off one last time.

Then you died.

>>1568218

Waking up in a cold sweat, tangled in bedsheets, you find yourself not in the muddy battlefield of the Galvean Front, rather, in your bunk on the SC Nero, the ship that has been your home for the last five years.

After that day, you were declared legally dead. You actually would've, if not for the efforts of a certain medic. Now, you are soldier for hire, using what few skills you had learned in the GDF to your advantage. It's been rough, at times, but the pay's better than any soldiering job on Galvea ever would've been.

Sighing, and extricating yourself from the tangled mess that is your bed, you make your way to your small bathroom, and look at yourself in the mirror, splashing water over your face.

Looking at your body in the mirror, you study your various scars that crisscross your athletic frame. Following the scars down your body, you look at the biggest one you ever got. The one from the machine on Galvea. A nasty, puckered scar across your abdomen, curving across the right side of your body, up to your armpit. It had done quite a bit of damage, and shaking you about hadn't helped.

Anyway, moving on. After that incident, you were....

To what degree did you to get rebuilt?

>Arms, legs, and a good chunk of my shoulders and spine.
>Both arms and legs replaced.
>Both of my legs.
>Just my spine, I needed it, after how badly shattered everything was.
>Write-in.

>>1568218
That's a pretty awesome way to go.

>>1568234
>>Arms, legs, and a good chunk of my shoulders and spine.
No reason not to. Still got our bits?

>>1568234

>Arms, legs, and a good chunk of my shoulders and spine.

Yaaaaas.

>>1568234
>Arms, legs, and a good chunk of my shoulders and spine
I didn't ask for this

>>1568234
>Arms, legs, and a good chunk of my shoulders and spine.
Why are we still here?

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>>1568240
>>1568254
>>1568290
>>1568308

>Arms, legs, and a good chunk of my shoulders and spine.

Writing.

>>1568234

Your spine was permanently damaged in that fight, and without severe cybernetic work, you would never be able to walk, or use your arms again. So, you had your arms and legs replaced entirely, and significant augmentation to the spine and shoulders.

The prosthetics themselves are indistinguishable from a normal arms and legs, and fit seamlessly onto your torso. They're as strong as a normal human, as well, with feeling integrated. It's almost as if you never lost your limbs in the first place.

You still know the difference. It's mainly the lack of a pulse.

Splashing water on your face, and then drying off with a towel, you throw on a random shirt and sweatpants, and yawning, leave your room, heading to the mess hall.

Over the years, you moved on from the basic techniques that you were taught in the GDF, and developed your own distinctive fighting style and techniques. Nothing too drastic, however, you're much better than any GDF Conscript will ever be.

Partly because of their life expectancy, but that's besides the point.

What is your style of combat, and what techniques did you develop, in life as a mercenary?

Combat Style (Choose 1)

>Rifleman (+1 to shooting rolls)
>Bruiser (+1 to CQC)

Technique (Choose 2)

>Handyman (+1 to repair)
>Gadgeteer (+1 to device use/modification)
>Trapmaster (+1 to traps)
>Construction (+1 to building structures)

>>1568376
>>Bruiser (+1 to CQC)
>Gadgeteer (+1 to device use/modification)
>Trapmaster (+1 to traps)

>>1568401
Ultimate day ruiner.

>>1568376

>Rifleman (+1 to shooting rolls)

>Gadgeteer (+1 to device use/modification)

>Construction (+1 to building structures)

>>1568376
>Rifleman (+1 to shooting rolls)
>Handyman (+1 to repair)
>Construction (+1 to building structures)

>>1568376
>Bruiser (+1 to CQC)
>Trapmaster (+1 to traps)
>Construction (+1 to building structures)

This is the count so far.

1 Handyman
2 Bruiser
2 Rifleman
2 Trapmaster
2 Gadgeteer
3 Construction

Rolled 1, 1 = 2 (2d2)

>>1568477
Just flip a coin for those options.

1 being bruiser and 2 being rifleman for the first
1 being trapmaster and 2 being gadgeteer for the second

ez. No one can argue with the dice.

>>1568477
Actually I'll change my vote from construction to gadgeteer

Rolled 2, 2 = 4 (2d2)

>>1568497
Ehhhh

Rolled 1, 2 = 3 (2d2)

1- Bruiser
2- rifleman

1-Trapmaster
2-Construction

>>1568506
>Bruiser (+1 to CQC)
>Gadgeteer (+1 to device use/modification)
>Construction (+1 to building structures)

>>1568376
>>1568506
>>Rifleman (+1 to shooting rolls)
>Gadgeteer (+1 to device use/modification)
>Construction (+1 to building structures)

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>>1568376

Over time, you honed your close-quarters fighting, use of devices in combat, and general construction. Quite useful for support operators. Which you usually were, acting as a backup to one of the others. Your injuries and prothstetics never seemed to bother the team. They accepted you as you were, welcomed you into the team. Honestly, it was a welcome change from the loneliness of the hospital.

Sitting down at the table, you are greeted by the fresh sizzling sound of bacon and eggs, coming from the stove, to your left. Cooking said bacon and eggs was Rachel Parker, team demolitions expert. Surprisingly, her job in combat isn't indicative of her cooking skill, as the woman can cook up a storm one day, and blow apart a building the next.

Standing about a head and a half shorter than you, the blonde woman is athletic and toned, for her slight frame. Dressed in casual clothes similar to yours, she gave you a warm, genial smile, a welcome sight after last night.

"Mornin', Alex, sleep well hun?"

>Yeah, I did. You?
>Not really. For some reason, I keep thinking about Galvea.
>You cooking breakfast today?
>Write-in

I think I'm gonna call this one here, more soon. Thanks for playing!

>>1568610
>You cooking breakfast today?
Avoid the question, because fuck it.
>>1568622
Thanks for running, Ath. Missed this quest.

>>1568610
>Still working on that
>What'cha cookin?

>>1568610
>>Not really. For some reason, I keep thinking about Galvea.

>>1568610
>Yeah, I did. You?