>>3951775
You see Memphis. You see Fisher … and a blonde man with a thick mustache and a coat over his uniform, crossing his gangly arms as he glared at the two women before him, before turning them up to meet your eyes. The intensity of his purple irises don’t disappear, however … and it doesn’t take long for you to wake up to the plain fact that your presence was something he wasn’t quite appreciative of.

As Fisher whirls around and her expression morphs from what you presume to be a professional visage into a show of irritability … it takes but an instant for you to realize that it was a sentiment that she shared.

‘I told you to wait outside,’ she barks, memories of your second year flooding back without a shred of mercy. It was as if you’d gained pounds and portly handles in the span of a nanosecond.

You had to think fast.

>Write-In

>>3951780
>You have two options: Either continue glaring at AEGIS Specialist GAIA-0401 or you can inform Second Scion Mishima about the emergency that prevent him from spending his last night on planet with his Mistresses.

>>3951780
>AEGIS Specialist GAIA-0401 requesting permission to assist maam.

>>3951780
>If you’re having issue with the sensor net Ma’am have you tried using direct visual or weather satellites to ascertain the situation?

>>3951785
>>3951905
Don’t do this, it wastes time and we’re already in the wrong.

>>3951989
We are not a techy this time. We are one of the most politically powerful people in the galaxy.

We only have a technical ability of 2 this time. Our speaking ability, command ability and knowledge are much higher this time.

>>3951780
>>Write-In
Snap to attention. "I've no excuse, ma'am. However I needed to offer additional tools for the communications crisis. The Mishima House is prepared to push civilian assets to aid in reestablishing orbital surveillance in support of local operations without causing unrest in the populace. This should at least afford limited overwatch capability. Lastly, a possible technical solution to the problem. Provisional Cadet Spirance is due to be matriculated next semester. She was personally scouted by Instructor Fisk and as a spacer with a broad technical background, might be able to jury rig the system to some semblance of function. With how the technicians are unable to bring it online, its a moonshot that cant hurt."

>>3952005
Sounds good to me

>>3952005
>>3952100
Oddly enough, this wins by virtue of having the most votes. :/

Session in 2 hours-ish. Hopefully my cat doesn't get antsy. She's getting a little chunky.

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The rules of the hierarchy reverse themselves in an instant as you come to the conclusion of the where and the what of your situation. Standing at attention, you square your shoulders and widen your stance, hoisting your arms behind you. You are not Scion and Mistress here. She is your superior: a Mech Warrior with more commendations in a single assignment than you could probably achieve in a career. Outside the confines of the uniform, you were free to do as you pleased … but not here.

‘Forgive me for my insubordination, Instructor, I have no excuse for disobeying your order of station,’ you start, keeping your eyes on the ceiling. ‘However, I couldn’t help but over-hear the … current circumstances from the technicians and I would like to sincerely offer my assistance in the management of this … crisis.’

The Watch Commander—at least that’s who you assume the only other man in the room to be—grunts as he makes his way past your two former Instructors. The lower hemisphere of your vision is able to partly visualize a rather annoyed visage from the man. You don’t dare turn your gaze downwards for a better look. He was half a head shorter than you, but keeping discipline was the superior option to aggravating the situation by trying to be … smart.

‘And what do you have to offer … cadet?’

Oh, that stung.

‘I am the Second Scion of House Mishima. If the issue is a world-wide blackout of communications and orbital visuals as well as our inability to receive jump signals, I’m sure that there are private entities I could influence in order to assist in the re-establishment of said capabilities. I’m sure that they’d be worried enough to lend their—’

‘And you think that we haven’t tried that?’

You’re uncertain whether his lack of concern or reverence in light of the knowledge that you are a Scion is something to be commended or annoyed at, but upon consideration of the technical difficulties of the current conundrum, you supposed that it was a stupid suggestion. Of course the ODF would have contacted private entities for assistance regarding the blackout. With or without you. They weren’t stupid enough to not consider that among their chief options.

‘Uh, I … I assumed the opposite, admittedly, but … since you’ve tried every orthodox method, may I suggest something a little … radical?’

‘Oh, like flying a fighter up blind?’ he grumbles, sarcastically.

You finally turn your head down … and take a swift step to your right, gesturing towards your blonde companion.

‘Rosaria?

‘E-Eh?’

‘This is Rosaria El Moldavor Spirance; she’s a little shy, but I’m sure that she has something to offer—’

‘Senpai,’ Rosaria hisses, practically pressing her nose into your eardrum. ‘What are you doing?

>Write-In

>>3953264
>>Write-In
"Rosaria, we in a bad situation. Your skills are a wildcard we can play to see if theres something we can do to bring these systems online. Even if you do fail, we're no better off but I think you have a good chance or restoring something or figuring out whats going on."

>>3953430
support

>>3953430
>support

Fell down some steps and bruised/fractured my metatarsal/cuboid. Back in the saddle and running in about ... an hour and a half. Not going to prayers today.

>>3954287
Geez mang. Be more careful. Fractures are not fun.

‘You’re an apprentice engineer under Fisk, aren’t you?’ you whisper back, bending slightly to get closer to her ear. ‘With your background, maybe you can see something that the ODF is missing.’

‘My background?’ she breathes, her tone clearly apprehensive despite the volume.

‘You’re from a Colony Fleet with centuries of experience jury-rigging obsolete tech to navigate Imperial and unknown space … there’s probably something that you can do here, right?’

‘That’s a stereotype, Senpai!’

‘Well, you can, can’t you? You’re good with ships, so you probably know something about how a planetary network system and relay works, right? Doesn’t the average Colony Fleet use something to that effect to navigate and establish mobile sovereignty?’

‘That’s still a stereotype!’

‘Are you telling me that there’s nothing you can do?’

‘I don’t even know what’s going on!’

‘Very well, then I’ll take it upon myself to—’

‘Senpai!’

‘Just so you know, I am being very patient right now,’ the Watch Commander rumbles, catching your attention again. ‘I suggest you not try to see if there’s a ceiling on that patience, Lord Scion.’

The sarcasm isn’t lost on you. You have no doubt that if you weren’t a Scion, the shorter man would have decked you and thrown you out for your unprofessional display. Rosaria, predictably, freezes on the spot upon facing the Watch Commander … and you are, frankly, not that far behind her. The last few years had done away with your indiscipline … and regardless of how and what you considered the ODF, the Watch Commander had good reason to be testy with you.

You decide to get to the point.

‘Sir,’ you start, squaring your shoulders and jutting out your chin. ‘My companion, as unqualified as she may seem’—bad way to start; you always wince at the attempt—‘is … she is an apprentice engineer, hand-picked by Instructor Fisk. I’m sure that she’d be of use to you in sorting out the current—’

‘I have over three dozen active operators, engineers, technicians and specialists that are trying to sort out a planet-wise blackout … and you’re telling me that, more than those operators, engineers, technicians and specialists … that this girl can lock on to something that we … and the rest of the planet … haven’t been able to even have a read on the last few hours?’

‘She’s from a Colony Fleet, sir.’

In an isolated corner of your vision … you can see Instructor Fisher rubbing her temples.

‘Oh, that changes everything.’

You don’t dare turn your head downward.

‘Sir, if we’ve tried everything unconventional … or conventional, even, by our standards, why not try something that we never thought to try at all?'

There’s silence. For a while, it lingers … and you half-expect a form of impact on your jaw for your insubordination. Then, suddenly, you hear the scraping of heels as the man takes a step back … and the atmosphere softens.

‘So, spacer—’

You inhale a sharp intake of breath, glancing from out of the corner of your eye at a clearly intimidated young woman.

‘—what can you tell me about the probable causes of a world-wide blackout of jump viability, extra-network capabilities and a complete crippling of our defense grid?’

Rosaria bites her lip, turning her head downwards.

‘I … I don’t know.’

He snorts, clicking his tongue in tandem.

‘Oh no, I mean … there are a myriad of causes. There’s no one generalization of the cause. Interference could be from external factors such as a jump distortion event that happened too close to a base satellite sub-network or just routine maintenance failure of a hub. At least, that’s the most common cause, I mean … an over-load results in an overlap of information and the VI attempts to assume both responsibilities of the mother network and anything that’s linked to it. It’s the same principle that several capital ships operate on, going point-to-point, of course, not … on the …’

She trails off, shrinking slightly.

‘What if I said that we already had those checked out?’

‘External interference?’

‘There’re only corporate satellites and comm boost grids around and none of them operate out of scope to the extent that they’d cut into our capabilities. Same thing for the jump points. Everything’s secure enough to receive and depart as per ship protocols. Rhysode doesn’t get much traffic, but we abide by them anyway. There’s close to no reason at all that an external factor dictated the grid’s failure.’

‘So … complete confidence, then? That it’s an internal failure instead of one caused by—’

‘Are you questioning the competence of my crew, cadet?’

Rosaria bites her lip, shaking her head.

You feel like she has something more to say, but … at the same time, if the man seemed dissatisfied with the extent of Rosaria’s skills as it were, you didn’t think that it would be wise to push it any further. To press the issue and risk the ire of not just the man before you, but your two former Instructors and the possibility of shaming the shine of your uniform … or did you think that this was the extent of Rosaria’s so-called specialty? The man had a point: it wasn’t as if there were incompetent swathes of ODF Officers on the job …

>‘Go ahead, Rosaria.’ (Prompt her into further pursuit)
>‘Sir.’ (Excuse yourself, apologize)

>>3954529
>‘Go ahead, Rosaria.’ (Prompt her into further pursuit)

>>3954529
>>‘Go ahead, Rosaria.’ (Prompt her into further pursuit)

You guys deserve an update as to why I've been silent: I broke my foot going down the stairs. My uncle's sister (an actual doctor) says that my metatarsal has some fractures and that I'll be feeling some pain for the foreseeable future when I put pressure. My future brother-in-law and sister have been keeping me away from my computer and tucking my 30 year-old ass in bed so I don't aggravate it.

I'll be running tonight, in t-minus 3 hours and 15 minutes.

File: Spoiler Image (142 KB, 1200x800)

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vpj1DYK4fCs

Spoilers. t-minus 5 minutes.

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You give her a small, encouraging nod.

Go ahead.

‘I wouldn’t dream or entertain such a thought, sir,’ Rosaria lets out, dropping into a deep bow, hands folded over her lap, ‘I am sure that everyone under your instruction and authority have covered every discernible possibility regarding the current state of the planet’s communications … and I’m sure that whatever that I have to say, your experience and protocols more than make up for my own fallacies.’

You look down to see your companion raising her head and steadying her chin (although not quite squaring her shoulders and puffing her chest) in succession, carving a much more confident cut of herself for all to see. Her body language has some shaky bits that would scatter like a deck of paper cards … but any further comment that you could have (and there are many) on her impressionability could wait for later.

She had something to say, after all.

LEADERSHIP + 1

‘I … I merely believe that even with all avenues and protocols covered, there may be solutions that you haven’t seen as … fitting responses to the situation. You may have tried the unorthodox and the roundabout … but may I suggest trying something that no one would possibly try out of sheer absurdity or simplicity? Something … that’s … um … perhaps … well, not a total system shutdown and reboot, of course …’

‘There’s total blackout between our active patrols, scanning networks and our command centers and that’s the best that you’ve got?’

Despite his tone … you have a sinking feeling that rather than a condescending snipe, the Watch Commander was, indeed, by the word, picking her for solutions. Or rather, that’s what you choose to believe … and what, Rosaria, appears to believe in as well.

‘What about … a visual feed? A direct packet relay?’

The man stares blankly at Rosaria.

‘A direct visual feed through minimized packets? What is this? The pre-jump era—’

‘Visual feed packets sent frame by frame instead of by continuous streams or lumps of data slip by most jamming and interference protocols that have been in place the last six centuries,’ Rosaria practically … shrills. ‘If there’s a scrambling of a planet-wide network, certain bits of data can cut through by virtue of being too small to catch. The standard data packet is traceable by virtue of being—’

‘—above base value.’

The man visibly grits his teeth, picking his comm up from the side of his belt.

‘I want a visual sweep of each of the suspected points of interference; every single one. Every sector that you can count up to with a tick, I want swept and — I know that there’s nothing that we can get a bead on. Change the data feed from the streaming protocol to packets—’

There’s visible chatter from the other end.

‘We’re blind as we are; how can we see less than not at all? Get on it.’

The comm hitches to his belt with a swift click.

‘Follow me.’

It takes you a full second for you to realize that Rosaria wasn’t the only person he was addressing.

You follow the Watch Commander back into the busy chamber, your two former Instructors in tow, practically stepping on your heels. If there was a flurry of activity prior, the scene before you looked like one of a disturbed hornet’s nest. Red and green lights were replaced with yellow and orange indicators, a plethora of black holographic three-dimensional images popping up, one after the other, each and every one of them seemingly identical, save for a light hue to the blackness on display. Hands fly into the air and onto panels, knobs turning and dials clicking. You briefly muse that it really does sound like a disturbed—

‘We have transmission. Packets 075 through 093; reading confirmed, visuals at zero.’

‘Next thing you know they’ll have us making our own cheese.’

‘Packets have arrived. 114 through 163; zero visual, reading confirmed.’

‘Still no response from the VI, manual operations have nothing confirmed thus far. It’s like teaching a dog how to count.’

‘You have a dog?’

‘Sir, we’re just getting black images from the sensors and the satellites. There’s nothing we—’

‘Watch Commander!

‘Porkins?’

‘Sir, uh … I think I found our active patrol.’

A spherical, static image, larger than all the other holographic displays, lights up in the middle of the chamber. The lights dim, but you find the saturation and contrast upon the highlighted image made as obvious as possible. For a moment, you see nothing but pitch blackness … and odd shapes. As the seconds tick by, however, you are able to discern shapes … larges, small, irregular, scattered all about the—

By the Emperor.

The technician wasn’t lying.

He had found the patrol … or what was left of it. Husks of fighters, cruisers … the sight almost has your blood running cold. To your right, Rosaria reels in horror, her hand covering her mouth. You don’t blame her one bit. Outside of simulations, historical records and modules … you’d never seen such devastation. Floating without direction, purpose … it was as though you were staring at corpses of shard and metal.

It was horrifying to behold.

‘Sir, we have … something else.’

The large static sphere is placed out of focus as another image is brought forward.

You don’t need optical enhancements to recognize the shape of what’s before you. You doubt you needed eyes for it at all …

‘That’s a … is that an Alliance Battlegroup.’

‘Sound general quarters,’ Morrigan rumbles.

The Watch Commander complies.

Your ears ring as the klaxons blare.

>>3960430
>'Is that a Battlegroup? An actual Battlegroup?' (Disbelief)
>'We need to get to a shelter.' (Out of your depth)
>'Instructor, your orders.' (Soldier)
>Write-In

>>3960432
>>'Instructor, your orders.' (Soldier)

>>3960432
>'Instructor, your orders.' (Soldier)
About time this picked up

>>3960189
>I broke my foot going down the stairs.
Your name is Fragile.Well get better soon QM

>>3960432
>>'Instructor, your orders.' (Soldier)

>>3960430
Typo: "There's visible chatter from the other end" should be: "There's audible chatter from the other end, even from where you're standing."

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Your instinct delegates itself to five years of conditioning, discipline and training. You square your shoulders and spread your stance, hands folded behind you.

‘Your orders, Instructor Fisher.’

‘Get to a shelter.’

She doesn’t even bother to look at you.

>[Stand there like an idiot, dumbfounded]
>Protest your orders, assert your position as a member of the AEGIS
>Get yourself and Rosaria to a shelter, as she requests
>Write-In

>>3960487
>Get yourself and Rosaria to a shelter, as she requests

>>3960487
>Get yourself and Rosaria to a shelter, as she requests
:(

>>3960487
>>Protest your orders, assert your position as a member of the AEGIS
War calls, blood and oil will boil, I'm not missing this

>>3960503
going for this because

>>3960487
>Protest your orders, assert your position as a member of the AEGIS
>I can at least help you instructors get deployed before Rosaria and I get to the shelter.

>>3960487
>>Protest your orders, assert your position as a member of the AEGIS

>>3960496
>>3960498
Just so you know, this option would have led you to a Game Over.

>>3960487
>>Protest your orders, assert your position as a member of the AEGIS

I'm alive, high on pain-killers and will be running in about an hour.

>>3961559
Gay

>>3962035
Yes, it would have been. Also, sorry. My sister wanted me to go to the clinic because she was worried, so I, a 30 year-old man, had to sit next to her scowling like a little child. Doctor told us the same thing that my uncle's sister (also a doctor) said before: fractured metatarsals and tender tendies, apply cool ice pack and elevate. Just got back. I can't believe she took the day off work to keep an eye on me. We're usually butting heads at every corner.

>>3962165
Shes loves you.

Now hug your imouto

>>3962165
cute

Session walking in t-minus 45 minutes - 1 hour.

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You catch her before she has the opportunity to completely dismiss you. The embers in her irises burn as she turns to face you. You know you are stepping out of line; you know every second she doesn’t communicate with her fellow Officers to tend to you is another advantage in favor of the invading force. You are wasting her time, quite possibly costing crucial moments to slip away from her grasp, and yet …

‘Ma’am, with all due respect, I believe that I’d be more useful to you out here over being huddled in some shelter.’

‘Specialist,’ Fisher growls, putting an emphasis on every syllable she can pick at, ‘you are an unassigned graduate of the AEGIS Academy with immediate qualification restrictions to administrative and logistical departments and assignments. Do not make me repeat my orde—’

HOSTILES HAVE BREACHED THE PERIMETER! HOSTILES HAVE BREACHED THE PERIMETER!

It’s brief, minute … but the floor beneath you trembles.

‘How could they—’

‘What the—’

HOSTILES HAVE BREACHED THE PERIMETER! HOSTILES HAVE BREACHED THE PERIMETER!

‘Fisher,’ Memphis starts, gesturing towards the door.

‘Fine,’ she responds, gesturing towards you and Rosaria, raising her comm from her belt. ‘Follow me.’

You do.

‘Commander Wray, it’s Fisher, we have—’

Four bodies: you, Memphis, Rosaria and Fisher are in full sprint down the hallway and down the building, level by level; a glimpse into every floor highlighting every other member of personnel beginning their own evacuations of the premises. The din of the klaxons is at such a volume by the time you’d reached the connector bridge between the secondary hangar and the door—a section completely devoid of audio projectors, you are—

And that’s when you see it. Right at the end, a mere jog fromo the secondary hangar’s embrace and a hopeful retreat a breath away … your head turns to an odd alternation of lights in what seems to be a light-year distant. You hear Fisher’s—or Memphis’—voice barking at you to move.

The skull-like visage of the Bartholomew was unmistakeable. Even in that darkness, the silhouette was recognizable. A gaunt titan, striding forwards; a giant before ants. You feel rooted to the spot, as if hypnotized by the alternating blips upon its torso.

The base trembles with every step it takes; each iteration more violent in its oscillation to the one before.

You’re not sure whether it’s sheer awe on your part … or fear, really. You can’t really tell the difference between the two at this point.

It doesn’t take as long as you’d like to regain your senses … and by then, you realize that the other three were disappearing behind a partition.

So you run …

And end up soaring among flames.

SAVING GAME. PLEASE DON'T REMOVE THE DISC OR MEMORY CARD FROM SLOT 1

You groan and swear in the same breath, getting to your—

‘Senpai!’

The connector bridge was gone. There is a tingling, warm sensation at the back of your neck … a reminder of your moment’s hesitation. The warnings hadn’t been kidding about a breach … but you can only wonder just how jumbled the sensors all over the planet were if a Bartholomew had to waltz right next to the arrays and the secondary hangar for an alert to be set off. There’s no time for you to ponder any further, however. Fisher and Memphis are already up on the ramp, a brief gesture to follow the only indicator of their consideration. You and Rosaria are up on your own feet not a moment later, rushing up the ramp bursting alongside them an empty security checkpoint … and right into the adjacent administrative area. With every step you take, you can feel the Bartholomew returning in kind. The trembling is light, the air heavy …

The White Hawk of Arrakis had been here before. She’d find a way.

‘This is Fisher; we are under—’

You find yourself painfully slammed into a wall.

Flames lick at your neck once more. Consciousness, darkness and dreams seem to amalgamate into a single existence of a red hue as you tumble into what can only be describe as a hellscape of mouthless screams. You claw and cling at air, at darkness. Debris falls all around you as you experience the sensations of a caged insect in the hands of a child, violently shaking its confines for its own amusement. What little awareness that you have catches a glimpse of tumbling floors as you slowly awaken to the reality of present occurrence. Of course the Bartholomew would attack. Why wouldn’t it? It was on a military installation and the secondary hangar was an objective for the purpose of destruction. You were in a place that it didn’t want standing.

Your eyes don’t close, even when you finally stop.

How far down had you fallen, really?

Thirty feet? Forty? Sixty?

No, had you … had you really fallen? Such a drop would have broken your legs—

‘Urgh …’

Fisher.

The circuitry of her prosthetics are there for all to see. Her right leg is pierced by a metal rebar, the foot dangling and leaking green fluid. Her breathing is rapid, shallow … her eyes half-lidded. One arm whines with a shriek as she tries move it, the wrists groaning as she tries to orient herself. Her left leg is gone: blood and all other fluids leak from a gash so deep the synthetic fiber is the only thing that connects the rest of the limb to its installation point. She coughs and flails, her only remaining limb: her flesh and blood arm, clawing for—

You.

‘Morrigan!’

She’d saved you.

Even as fire and stone crumbled and metal shrieked … she’d leapt after you.

>Write-In

>>3963897
>get up and pry her out

>>3963903
supporting

>>3963903
this is fine

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You didn’t know whether it was a good idea or a bad one … but sitting in debris while surrounded by flames was an option even an idiot wouldn’t contemplate. Your hands grip the hot steel of the rebar … and pull. The angle isn’t unnatural … and the circuitry and mechanics of her cybernetics don’t hamper your attempt at dislodging the it from her person. Whining and groaning, you grit your teeth, ripping the damned thing inch by inch, before finally, with a sickening squelch, you manage to get her free. Fisher moans as she rolls over, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. You scoop her up the best you can manage, frantic. Her fluids, synthetic and artificial, were everywhere. There is only the hope that you can get her some form of medical attention somehow … but in the midst of this ruin, engulfed in flames and darkness and with your words deafened by noise, you can only—

You cry out and hold her tight as a screech and crash practically ruptures your eardrum. Metal falls again. Platforms, stands, railings, all come tumbling down before you. The structure had been compromised by the assault. You finally realize just where you are: below the administrative floors and right at the bottom of the secondary hangar. Cables and barriers come crashing down some dozens of feet to your right as the furthest wall within your sights unnaturally explodes, sending what looks like a wing part of sorts spinning like a throwing star before embedding itself tip first into the jumbled wreckage of the platform. Rectangular, metallic columns fall flat, prompting you to clutch Fisher in what you know to be a desperate and fruitless attempt to shield her from the ember, dust, shards and stones.

A loud groan reaches your ears with the swift return of your hearing.

It is the Bartholomew.

Marching perpendicular to your perspective, it likely doesn’t even see you. Marching through the rubble, the wreckage of the secondary hangar like a soldier wading through muck, you are to it as a local fern is to a Paradise World. It doesn’t even consider you, its massive legs crushing and breaking anything in its path. Cannons whirring, lights blinking … you stare up at what you can only imagine to be your own deliverer; devastation incarnate; harbinger for destruction.

You are afraid.

The sound of support wires snapping catches your attention as a cloaked, flaming pillar wobbles … and falls. You make a break for it, lifting Morrigan with what little strength you can summon, diving for the floor as the railing collapses, the covers flying as hot air—

And that’s when you see it.

The glowing red eye of the Hellion.

>Write-In

>>3963989
>get yourself and Fisher into the Hellion
GET IN THE ROBOT SHINJI

>>3963989
>>Write-In
Bridal carry fisher into the mech.

INITIATE STARTUP.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAqqAwhfet8 - Current Theme

>>3963989
There is probably no time to find Rosaria :/
>Scan surroundings for Rosaria
>Get yourself and Fisher into the Hellion

Sorry for short delay. Someone kinda spoiled a certain reveal I had in mind for this Quest and I'm throwing a bit of a hissy fit. :(

The hatch controls were manual. The Hellion was always a resilient Mech; one could drop it into a desert on some planet with a gravity quotient teetering on double digits and the structure would hold. Your hand on the battered and used yellow latch, you turn and pull, prompting the override to swing the cockpit into view. The Hellion was fallen over, but orienting yourself into the tiny chamber and sealing the hatch with a tight hold is an easier task than you would have guessed it to have been, especially with the shutting mechanism handles being close to impossible to reach with two people cramped in … and one of them having her prosthetic limbs swinging around like some puppet’s—

The world shakes again, causing your face to slam against a monitor. The emergency light is dim, but useful enough to allow you to orient yourself further. You don’t know what your priorities should be … but you now had the luxury in being able to put them in order where you hadn’t been before. She was a tough old girl, the Hellion … and there wasn’t much debris left that’d break through the armor, let alone the chassis, of the Mech. You rip your dress top off, pushing yourself off the side of the command pod, allowing you to address the injured woman you’d propped into the chair.

She was conscious … but for how long?

No.

That wasn’t the issue. You had to keep her—

She bites down a shriek, eyes wide and cybernetics flailing. Half her half catches you in the jaw as she arches her back, eyes widening in agony. The neural link between her artificial components and the rest of her body were acting up.

‘Morrigan!’

You hold catch her as she falls from her spot … and practically bites down on your shoulder.

Green fluid and red blood splatter all over you as her flesh and blood limb squeezes your right bicep.

‘Morrigan?’

She doesn’t reply, but the relinquishment of her maw from your shoulder indicates her awareness. You pull her back, observing the beads of sweat along her red-lit, soot-covered features, drool oozing from her mouth as her breath grows more and more rapid by the second. Panicking, you kick the bottom—the space by your leg—of the cockpit, releasing the medical kit from its confines. It’s a miracle that it had been in there untouched in the Mech’s service of life.

But the kit doesn’t have anything you can use, save for constrictive bandages and—

No, those wouldn’t do either.

There is nothing that you really can do.

Morrigan’s breathing grows slower, slower …

Your hand touches the activation pad, the primary start-up sequence already playing in your mind.

But there was a Bartholomew, a whole Alliance Battlegroup. Could you?

You stare at Morrigan, desperate.

Could you?

>Key in sequence
>Don’t

>>3964051
>>Key in sequence

>>3964051
>>Key in sequence

>>3964051
>Key in sequence

>>3964051
>>Key in sequence

>>3964051
>>Key in sequence

Running in t-minus 3 minutes.

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You hesitate.

You couldn’t stay here. Morrigan needed medical attention and with the Bartholomew’s heavy footsteps causing your heart to skip with their boom, there was no way that help would be arriving here of its own volition. You’re uncertain whether the rest of the planet’s defenses were up and running. If a Bartholomew had been able to breach the skies without so much as a whisper, how did you think the other points were faring? An Alliance Mech had decimated a Planetary Defense Array and the AEGIS hadn’t even sniffed its presence until it’d blasted you into freefall. What could you do?

You don’t know.

But the longer you laid here doing nothing, the less likely Morrigan would.

You key in the start-up sequence. You’d been in the simulators and the cockpit of this model long enough to know it from memory. Not a full start-up sequence, however. You weren’t sure if the flames around you were hot enough to conceal the synchronization of the combat module and the jump jets, and right now, with that beast around, you didn’t want to chance it. The static visual feed comes into view, displaying a grainy sight of what laid beyond the barrier of the command pod. You look frantically around, trying to make sense of a console that is ninety degrees different to what you’re used to. The blood-laden keypad finds its place under your fingers as you carefully cradle Fisher’s hard-breathing form.

The comm. You had to find the comm.

Grabbing the vox bead, you practically clamp the set it is attached to upon your cranium, broadcasting yourself on—

Nothing.

The channels are dead. You flick through them, one by one, of every comm channel that you can think that would come to mind, accessible by the archaic tech of the Hellion. You curse as each and every one is met with a protracted hum; you loop through them, again and again, almost—

No, not every one of them. There was still one channel, but …

Fisher cries out, clutching your shirt, biting your shoulder. Red and green wet your lap.

You had no choice. You had to use the shared general network.

A finger flicks the switch.

You had never been so relieved to hear static in your life. Remembering your emergency protocols, you patch the response channel through, hoping someone was there to listen.

‘This is GAIA-0401. I repeat, this is GAIA-0401. I have critically injured essential personnel. Please send—’

Explosions rock your shelter.

The Bartholomew had returned.

Your signal had been detected.

The sensors all around you warn of activated weapon points, decimating your surroundings. Through the visual feed, you can make out what is mostly beam weaponry. Frantic and en-masse, but more to cover a wide base rather than—

You hadn’t been detected. No. Not yet.

But … your signal. The Bartholomew, an Alliance Assault Mech capable of leveling cities on its own … it’d been able to pin-point your broadcast. Not accurately, but it’d been able to pick up that you were broadcasting. Had the Alliance Military installed such a feature upon the monstrous reaper? Allowed it to—

No.

A stealth configuration. Jamming, solo, subterfuge …

Unorthodox, but—

Your shelter is rocked again. The feet of the Bartholomew come into your immediate view. It was unloading itself on what was left of the administrative half-block. If the firing was that intense, you can only assume that such a focus detailed that the Battlegroup hadn’t taken the initiative of a pre-emptive drop just yet … or that this invasion wasn’t at a point where a general comm channel broadcast was above worry. The initial defenses had fallen, but Rhysode wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

You hang on for dear life as the impact of a hundred moving tons appears to nonchalantly send your downed Hellion into a spin, landing back first into a supportive wall. The heat indicators show that the joints had were cooking from the remaining ashes … and with the start-up only in what was essentially a glorified stand-by, the ventilation was—

The Bartholomew stops.

Its RADAR array upon its shoulders stick out like thorns, its back to—

You can see its back

>Keep silent
>Deploy MELEE WEAPONRY: [HEAT AXE]
>Deploy RANGED WEAPONRY: [MACHINE RIFLE]

>>3965419
>>Deploy MELEE WEAPONRY: [HEAT AXE]
LET ME AXE YOU A QUESTION SIR

>>3965419
>Keep silent
I think the Barth is trying to bait us out.

>>3965419
>>Deploy MELEE WEAPONRY: [HEAT AXE]

File: Red Sun Over Paradise.jpg (75 KB, 600x450)

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It is utter insanity.

You are in the flaming ruins of a hangar in Mech pushing ninety years of age by the next Primaris Moon. In your arms is a woman you had opened yourself up to in the last five years, the laughs and tears of your tenure as her student and her friend intermingling in every odd motion that you make. Gravity is a harsh mistress, even on Rhysode. You’re not even sure why your hand is reaching for the secondary control console. You are at a disadvantage. There is no mathematical reality where this plays out as an advantage, even against the madness of a Bartholomew that had just been refitted for subterfuge. It had more than enough power to decimate fortresses and shatter the heads of Mechs that would come its way. There are dozens of white-hot lasers upon its torso and mounted upon its shoulders, ready to turn any enemy before it into an assortment of ribbons. You would even go as far to say that you are blind to all but the immediate reality of a—

Now when did you flick that switch?

There is a Laughing God somewhere beyond the stars, crowning you as its fool. The corpse of a Mech that you ride is licked by the flames and kissed by stone and metal as the groan of activation reaches your ears, breathing heat and the promise of death. Fisher is in your arms, toppling upon the chair’s console as your feet swing into their correct position at the pedals. The VI boots up with a stream of code, the initiation process a manual endeavor, as is everything in this command pod. The target reticle instantly recognizes isolated signatures upon the mammoth of a mech, in the midst of a turning circle to orient itself into an offensive position. The night sky briefly enters the visual feed as the Hellion, like some shambling carcass of a hungry wolf, rises to its feet. The flick of your wrist has the Hellion reaching for the hollow compartment of the heat axe.

You had to get up close. Get personal.

It’s hard to believe that barely three seconds had passed since you’d flicked that switch.

The lasers fire, but either dude to the rubble and the heat or because you were closer to the back of its shoulder than the front, they’re unable to find their mark. You are under no illusions that your escape is of your own making. The Heat Axe is not yet charged. Five more seconds until activation. Five more.

The Hellion is clumsy.

5 …

So is the Bartholomew’s tracking.

4 …

With a more agile configuration, you would have been dead with your hand on the throttle.

3 …

You crash against the wall, the axe-head screaming concrete.

2 …

Your VI cries out a shooting solution. He had you.

1 …

And that’s when the axe sings

>[Press A to execute]

>>3965489
>A

>>3965489
>A
LOVE THE AXE MOTHERFUCKERS
LOVE IT

>>3965489
F

>>3965489
a

I prefer the GM to the Zaku II

File: mech combat.jpg (350 KB, 1920x1080)

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The Heat Axe burrows through the shoulder of the Bartholomew. The hydraulic overloads come into view in the form of a red-lettered warning on a secondary monitor, the holographic display from above showing the sheer resistance that works against you as you dig through the metal torso of the Mech. The Bartholomew slams its elbow into the pre-equipped shield, practically bending it on sheer impact. The systems warn you again, but your hands fly to adjust the torque, unwilling relinquish yourself of your quarry. You don’t know how much damage you’d just dealt the Mech, but you’re more than sure the moment that you came into its sights, the pilot would unleash the payload of its short-range missiles and consign you to oblivion. The struggle continues for what seems to be agonizing moments. You hadn’t found a suitable angle of attack despite the opening. The pilot hadn’t expected to be taken by surprise … and certainly not from the flaming wreck of the corpse of a Hellion.

And that’s when you find what you’re looking for.

The primary reactor.

The indicators of the Hellion’s left hand blare their cautions in more ways than one, but with a quick pedal, you use the Bartholomew’s mass as leverage … and pry the Heat Axe through the upper torso and out. The jump jets aren’t compensated in the action. You tumble through barriers of steel and flame, crashing through the only remaining partition of the secondary hangar through the outside world.

The defense systems blare out, warning you to encroaching foes.

It was naive to believe that the Bartholomew had acted alone.

True to form, the only thing that you are warned of is through direct sensor feed. Your RADAR arrays, already archaic, are unable to detect anything more than than sky and dust. Morrigan resting against your chest, you hold her head close as pop your shield from your back, ready to intercept—

Beams of plasma streak past you as you throttle yourself towards the power station, flicking through your sensors for a bead on the belligerents. The angles they fire from are inconsistent, and your inexperience has you practically flying blind around the arrays with another activation of your jumpjets. Missiles—no, rockets—zoom past you, blasting the dish behind you. You let out a curse, readying your axe. You should have known that they’d be tracking you. You had to close your distance. The storage units are nearby; you drop the Hellion into a hunch, hoisting up your shield in one hand and swinging your axe back in the other.

You may not know where they’re coming from, but from the differing angles, you can tell that the Bartholomew’s cohorts number at most, three.

The firing had stopped.

Morrigan’s breathing quickens.

You had to do something.

>>3965526
>Lie in wait, see if fire is drawn
>Bolt for the open field, make a break for it
>Jump out in the open, visualize and position your targets
>Write-In

>>3965529
This is a test to see if you guys remember your combat style.

>>3965529
>Jump out in the open, visualize and position your targets
We chose vanguard: the tank style.

>>3965529
>>Jump out in the open, visualize and position your targets

>>3965529
>>Jump out in the open, visualize and position your targets

Running in a bit, folks. Sit tight.

You elect to do things the old-fashioned way.

[VANGUARD] activated!

Sticking the throttle, you move out of cover, holding the Hellion’s shield up as you switch to short-range audio and visual sensors. The results are almost immediate as a flurry of rockets, inaccurate but of sheer volume, tear the ground and nick your held carapace. The warnings blare with every impact as the instruments triangulate the launch points of the rockets. You don’t stand still, however. Once the general direction had been deduced, you have the Hellion holding up the shield as it is strafed by energy weaponry. The heat indicators of the Hellion aren’t as up-to-date as you’d like, but the triangulation is done all the same. You’d kill for a registration of the weaponry deployed, however. Information was ammunition, after all.

That’s how you count three.

They’re spread far apart enough for you to isolate your engagements. Even if you can’t make out their makes with the Hellion’s currently-offline database, it didn’t take a genius to deduce that the rockets were from a Mech designed to be a missile boat more than anything else and whoever the plasma bolts were from, at least one of them could be classified as a mid-range supplementary fire specialist. Alliance Military Mech designs had heat management as priority, and judging by the discharge rate and the sudden gaps, you assume that they weren’t keen on wasting more shots and risking the shutdown protocol.

At the same time, the more immediate danger is the lesser of the three. The missile boat, whatever it was, had less worries regarding heat management, being a practitioner of time-old ballistic, kinetic warfare. Isolating the engagements is a manageable task, but … which one did you prioritize? The constant irritation of missile boat riding its luck on its ballistics … or the deadly bolts of the other two that gambled on reload length against precision?

>Go after the missile boat
>Engage one of the other two

>>3966719
>>Go after the missile boat

>>3966719
>Go after the missile boat

File: question.jpg (21 KB, 479x335)

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The question is: do you risk getting sniped by a high-damaging shot taking out a lesser enemy or do you accept getting peppered by projectiles while you get rid of the former's danger?

>>3966719
>>Engage one of the other two
take care of the laser boi first

>>3966719
>Engage one of the other two

Enemy missiler cannot fire on us when we get in the face of a laser shooter. Especially since it appears to be aoe bombardment. And if it doesnt care and fire anyways, damage should be judged more minimal, if hes willing to risk FF.

>>3966723
>>3966727

>>3966739
>>3966779
The votes are in and it's time to roll.

File: Whitestorm.jpg (40 KB, 700x700)

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You put the Hellion through its paces, patrolling the perimeter. The targeting computer and the VI show your opponents coming into view. The sensors pick up the straggling missile boat trying to get into position for another volley … which it does. The Hellion shudders as you hold the shield up, the gyros of the ancient Mecha practically weep at trying to keep balance through the sprint. The Hellion, however, is a tough bird. The integrity of the mech’s chassis holds as well as it does in your grandfather’s youth. She could take all of this and more … but not a pot-shot from a plasma rifle. Not one from the Whitestorm Units that enter your engagement zone.

There are two of them. Each with a configuration unique to itself, but both with more than enough juice to smack a hole through your cockpit. A plasma bolt flies past you in a miraculous miss, prompting the Whitestorm to activate its jump-jets and beat a brief retreat behind one of the smaller hangars. Your eyes don’t stray from the other target, however, firing a rapid succession of purple lasers your way. It’s more accurate than the rocket volley, but due to the neutral field, the damage is more a sprinkle of seasoning than it’s anything resembling a piercing shot. The plasma, however, was something that you couldn’t take a risk on. That’s what you have the shield up for. Not that you could just tank the laser blasts either: there was only so much heat and neutralization that the system could keep up with … and if lasers weren’t useful at all, they would have been put out of use millennia ago.

The second Whitestorm, configured for mid-range gun exchanges and support fire, blasts away at you with methodical shots. You make the Hellion dive for the ground. He was getting more daring … and more calculative. If he had elected for reflex weaponry or a kinetic-based armament configuration, you would be dead by now. Shifting your feet on the pedal, you jump over a pill-box and try to return fire … only to realize that the Whitestorms had re-oriented themselves in the instant you had been trying to do the same. You hold up the shield as the plasma rifle of the first Whitestorm gives off a heat warning, before making an almost-fatal turn and slamming your shield against the building, halting your attempt at defense.

The first Whitestorm, however, doesn’t fire.

The second one does.

Four laser bolts, all making marks on your shield as you drop behind a set of power towers, holding your shield up and making a go for your axe.

That’s when the first one finally does fire.

The plasma is deadly enough to rip at least two feet off the top of your shield, but it does not much else.

You had to do something. Your luck wasn’t going to last forever.

And neither would Morrigan.

>>3966903
PARTY:
Hellion [VANGUARD]
-Machine Rifle, Heat Axe, Shield (Vs Kinetic)

ENEMY INTEL:
Whitestorm 1 (Suppression Fire Configuration, Rapid Fire, Mid-Range)
Whitestorm 2 (Precision Fire Configuration, Single/Double Fire, Mid-Range/Long-Range)

>[Engage in Melee]
>[Engage in Mid-Range]
>[Engage in Long-Range]
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

>>3966912
>>[Engage in Melee]
Whitestorm 1 (logic behind this is, if we're not suppressed we can do a LOT more damage faster)

>>3966912
>>[Engage in Melee]
>Whitestorm 2
get rid of plasma man

>>3966912
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence
Defensive pilot better at counter attacks than going offensive.

>>3966916
It's okay. I consulted with my GM friend and I simplified the combat a lot compared to rolling dice (Which you will STILL do, by the way, just not rolling every hour like the slog you guys went through last year). Keeping this narrative driven, still. Combat is more you guys figuring out what you have at hand, what the enemy has, and playing to your advantages.

>>3966916
>>3966920
Also, this is a first-time, so I'll clarify what Vanguard's strengths are:
>Taking damage
>Enduring damage
>Staying still and eating damage
>Giving it all back with interest
>Drawing attention
It's the only Class in the game where the best course of action, upon engagement, is to sit there and take it.

>>3966912
>>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

>>3966912
Whitestorm 2 (Precision Fire Configuration, Single/Double Fire, Mid-Range/Long-Range)

>[Engage in Melee]

Heat warning. Hes in cooldown

>>3966952
That's OUR heat warning also

read>>3966935
apparently the correct move is >wait

>>3966912
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

You hold your position. The Hellion’s fingers, mimicking your own, play upon the handle of your Heat Axe as you wait. A glance at Fisher has everything in you screaming to make your move now; now … but that had never been your game. Never. The heat sensors light your night up once more, telling you that your wasted chance had allowed them to take that first stride. You are strafed by laser fire, the Hellion’s shield taking the brunt of the assault, but two or three stray bolts catching the Mech’s shoulder and lower torso, barely missing the command pod. You are at a numerical disadvantage. Anything that you tried now, recklessly jumping in or taking an axe to the Whitestorm’s visor would only leave you more open than you already are. You were never one for such an act. You are not a serpent readying its fangs, no … you just know better than to engage a melee opportunity with such abandon.

The Hellion is a tough old bird.

She will endure.

The plasma bolt is more deadly, but you’re able to keep yourself from suffering the brunt of it, all the same. It’s hot and deadly, but not enough to breach your defenses. Not yet. The Hellion’s footsteps rumble. You didn’t have all the time to spare, but you have enough for this.

Because this is how you did battle.

You just needed to wait for your turn.

ALLY 1: +1 ACTION
ALLY 1: [VANGUARD] +1 ACTION (Endured Attack)

[ACTION: 2]
>[Engage in Melee]
>[Engaged in Mid-Range]
>[Engaged in Long-Range]
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

WHAT IS ACTION?

Action is … action. Every turn that you stockpile an action (after a sequence), you add it into the next exchange. Classes stockpile actions differently. Some by not entering combat at all. Some by initiating the first blow. Some by playing an advantage of their own against their opponent’s shortcomings. Know your class’s strengths and weaknesses and string those stockpiles together for a combo. Remember that a Mech with a significant advantage against you can rob you of your action stockpiles, so know when to do what. Sometimes it’s better to do something. Sometimes it's better to just not do anything at all. It all depends on your Class and your Mech.

>>3967051
Typo. That should read [Ally 01 - Action: 3]

>>3967051
>>[Engage in Melee]
>[Engage in Melee] again
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence


Since we have 3 actions, take out the plasma whitestorm

>>3967058
sounds good to me

>>3967058
I'll support that.

Okay, time for ENGAGEMENT ROLLS. Oh boy.

>Whitestorm 2
Successful AP Required for Kill: [2]
[Inches from Death] Trigger: [1]
STATUS: Triggered.

Roll for Success (1d100) DC: 85

Rolled 12 (1d100)

>>3967080

Rolled 73 (1d100)

>>3967080
Rolling

Rolled 65 (1d100)

>>3967080

It’s a hard sell, but you take your shot. Practically punching the throttle, you blast your jump jets in an attempt to reach the sniper before he can take his next shot. The other Whitestorm fires its lasers, but the heat output from before had rendered them nothing more than irritating beams of hot light upon your Mech’s armor. You’re not sure how much more the dispersion field can intercept. Five shots? Eight? That didn’t matter, however. It’s not your immediate concern. Eyes red and your target before you, you have the Hellion hold its axe up high, swinging it downwards. The pilot is quick to react. The Hi-Blade meets your Heat Axe with equal force, throwing your Mech off-balance, but leaving the Whitestorm just as open as it had been sitting pretty with a charge ready. You both recover on equal footing, blades crashing with a cruel shriek. You keep the quarters as close as you’re able to manage. This is gambling. You are taking a gamble. The pilot before you had probably run dozens of operations, hundreds upon thousands of hours of time in that hunk of battered metal.

So you dig. You dig and dig and dig … you keep them from being able to find their bearings. You don’t allow them to be anything but on the defensive, trying to match you power for power, speed for speed. You have to keep them in your sights; keep their back to their ally. His front to yours. You cannot look away. They mustn’t look away. Press.

Press and press and press.

Even if you are outmatched by the blade, even in experience … you know your Mech …

And the Hellion and the Whitestorm are like a brick and a napkin.

>[Follow Up]
>[Shift to Mid-Range]
>[Shift to Long-Range]
>[Disengage]

>>3967200
>[Follow Up]

>>3967200
>[Follow Up]
Finish him.

>>3967200
>>[Follow Up]

File: Yup.jpg (111 KB, 640x445)

111 KB JPG

The axe’s song is cruel, wicked … but there is beauty in its brutality. The pilot makes their mistake in trying to disengage. Not unrecoverable, but a mistake nonetheless. You would have forgiven them if they’d gone for their shield to bring the odds further in their favor. It was what you would have done. Caught against a heavier, slower Mech with greater torque potential, you would have warded yourself against a melee strike and thrown you off with the shield. The Whitestorm’s shield is larger; it covered more of its mass and was a detached component. Yours was hooked at the shoulder. A parry and a riposte to shift into a distance-change was what you would have done.

You would not have gone straight for your gun.

You don’t know why they did what they did. Perhaps they’d believed that thirty feet was adequate enough a gap for plasma round to the chest. Perhaps they thought that you’d assume a defensive stance.

The axe’s song is cruel, wicked … and there is much beauty in its savagery.

You bury its head in the Whitestorm’s torso, right in the command pod. The Mech struggles to get away, pushing the tip of its shield against the Hellion to pry itself out of your—

It’s too late.

Blood for blood, battle is no place for half-measures.

You dig the heel deep.

You pull.

You can only imagine what the pilot experiences. Regret? Resignation? Defiance? Rejection?

The blade burns and melts through the fragile innards of the Mech … and with great strength, you rip the bit out of its torso, tearing the Whitestorm in two. Metal, cable, fuel and sparks fly as the blade exits through its right side … and it falls lifelessly to the floor, knees first, head second. The darkness does little to cloak the grisly outcome of your action. Under the stars, riddled with pockmarks from beams and flames, you stand above your kill, victorious.

Your first kill.

[AP Left: 1]
>[Engage in Melee]
>[Engage in Mid-Range]
>[Engage in Long-Range]
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

>>3967242
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence
Time to regain enough AP to takeout the other Mech.

>>3967242
>>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence
get that stack again

>>3967242
>>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

>>3967245
>>3967246
>>3967247
You guys mind if I take a bit of a break? My foot is acting up again.

>>3967248
Go rest, mate.

Be running in a bit. Hang tight. Unless you guys have plans for Friday night

>>3968343
not really might pass out though.

For some reason or other, the pilot charges you head on. You grit your teeth as you take the Hi-Blade’s blow, barely managing to parry with your shield. The hydraulics groan as the Whitestorm meets your shield with its blows. You’re running on instinct at this point, matching a pilot with years, even decades your senior in the command pod the only way you know how. Passivity wasn’t rewarded on the battlefield. In this wasteland where the only certainty was conflict and opposition, one had to always be on the move, on the prowl. Survival was on the tip of every cry, the horizon of every sight; it is a hope that one had to rip from the greedy, needy hands of the enemy. You do not live if you did not make moves for it to be a certainty. Even a neophyte such as yourself knows that.

You don’t know why they’d engaged you at such a preferable pace.

Neither did you care.

They must have swung that thing a dozen times.

The Hi-Blade’s clashes against the bulk of your shield are frightening at every clang, maddening at every chip and dent … but the shield doesn’t break. With every strike it is worn down. It is made brittle.

But it doesn’t break.

b]ALLY 1: +1 ACTION
ALLY 1: [VANGUARD] +1 ACTION (Endured Attack)[/b]

[ACTION: 3]
>[Melee-Counter]
>[Engage in Mid-Range]
>[Engage in Long-Range]
>Wait/Defer

>>3968652
>>[Melee-Counter]

>>3968652
>[Melee-Counter]

File: PIR.jpg (23 KB, 450x450)

23 KB JPG

>Whitestorm 1
Successful AP Required for Kill: [2]
[Inches from Death] Trigger: [1]
STATUS: Triggered.

Roll for Success (1d100) DC: 85

Rolled 11 (1d100)

>>3968668

Rolled 56 (1d100)

>>3968668

Rolled 92 (1d100)

>>3968668
rolling

Rolled 35 (1d100)

>>3968668

File: KLANG.jpg (135 KB, 1280x720)

135 KB JPG

They’re clumsy with their shield. You assume it’s because skirmishes up-close were few and far between. The Whitestorm was a Mech designed for all fronts, and while melee engagements weren’t a particular weakness, there were only so many configurations that one could retrofit a Mech on. Even in its relatively young age and superior OS and responsiveness, the Whitestorm’s disadvantage is clear: while standing at least half a head above the Hellion, the lankier design and the myriad of option points gave little consideration for an engagement of this kind. The Mech pilot had made a mistake playing to where you are stronger. Perhaps they hadn’t desired to give you the opportunity to snipe a retreat or risk your interference in regrouping with their isolated comrade. Perhaps they were angry at your victory over the charred corpse.

Covered in blood and your teeth tasting metal and smoke, you can only meet them as you did all else.

As a soldier.

The blade is a savage beast.

You are a man of discipline. Of patience.

With every clang of heated metal against disruptive steel, you learn. You know that they have no experience where they are now. Their swings are basic, intended for a quick kill. Yours are, too, but more than that, they are meant to disarm, throw off-balance. A kill isn’t easy when its prey can still rear its horns.

You push.

You pull.

You swing.

You knock.

For that one strike.

>[Melee-Follow Up]
>[Engage in Mid-Range]
>[Engage in Long-Range]
>Wait/Defer

>>3968733
>[Melee-Follow Up]

>>3968733
>>[Melee-Follow Up]

>>3968733
>[Melee-Follow Up]

>>3968733
>[Melee-Follow Up]

It’s easier the second time.

Your hand—your hand—grips the joystick tightly as the Whitestorm deactivates. The system gives you a yellow alert, a warning of the deactivated Mech’s weight, currently leaning into the axe, deeply embedded in the command pod. It’s a cleaner kill than your first one. The Whitestorm itself would have looked like it had been merely in an idle stance from some distance, probably … save for the sparks and the fuel leaking from the power plant and down onto the bit, reminiscent of a wound. The pilot is not an issue. Your strike had buried itself deep enough to assure you of that. The lights in the visor of the Whitestorm flicker and die, the Mech’s power core fading into darkness.

It falls into a heap.

You are victorious again.

The monitors and holograms around you turn a calm blue hue. You breathe the fire out of your lungs with every release, your jaw so pained that you hunch over—

Fisher.

Her pale, still form rolls in its position, her mouth opening and closing, her breathing labored, shallow … silent.

You open the channels again.

‘This is GAIA-0401, I need—’

MISSILE ALERT! MISSILE ALERT!

You swear, going for your joystick—

>[DODGE] (DC: 55)
>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

Rolled 1 (1d100)

>>3968778
>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

Rolled 22 (1d100)

>>3968778
>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

Rolled 35 (1d100)

>>3968778
>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

Rolled 61 (1d100)

>>3968778
>>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

>>3968804
You saved them. You weren't supposed to save them! D:

[VANGUARD]

The shield holds up.

The Hellion endures stray launches, but she has more than enough to eat the damage.

You curse, berating yourself for allowing your guard to relax. The heat sensors go off as you put the Hellion into a sprint, scanning the base for your next target. The missile boat’s presence was masked against active pick-up protocols, but stealth was useless once you were within your enemy’s sights. The RADAR doesn’t give you a good read, but the heat trails are enough to compensate for that handicap.

Past the storage units and the towers, you see your enemy.

It’s a Crossbow Mk. III.

Armed with an array of rockets, missiles and supplementary guns, it was a primarily a defensive unit, with assignments relegated to—

You let out a cry as a sledgehammer slams against the Hellion. You’re thrown into a nearby building by the impact, warnings blaring around the cockpit. Something had hit you. It hadn’t been a missile; nor had it been a volley of rockets. Something of massive size and incredible force had struck you.

But there was nothing on your RADAR. None of your sensors had—

You hold onto Morrigan, activating the jump jets and launching yourself from the ruins of the building and into the air, before cutting them off just as quickly. Your defensive indicators warn of a lock on your position as you drop back on the ground. The ruins of the building are further reduced to rubble with what seems like an array of beams … and you realize just why there was no warning.

The Bartholomew had returned.

Damaged and smoking from its gaps and intakes … it rears upon you like a demon.

You blue lights turn yellow and the systems caution you of an engagement.

You are in a Hellion, Heat Axe and Shield at the ready, out-numbered. You have been peppered by beams, plasma bolts, missiles, the edge of hi-blades and have delivered defeat and death twice in the last eight minutes of combat. The Hellion’s power cells are of a healthy indication. The Heat Axe has seen more action in the last few moments than it had likely experienced in the last forty years. You are a spoiled rich child, standing in the middle of a burning array and communications center, on a planet hosting an invasion. There is no repeat. There is no revision.

There is nothing left but the designation GAIA-0401, Soldier of the Aegis.

And you are the only thing standing in the way of the Bartholomew’s total capture of the strategic point.

You muse, with a sardonic, dry smile … that, technically, you hadn’t even reported for duty yet.

>[Engage the Bartholomew]
>[Engage the Crossbow]
>[Attempt to disengage from battle]

>>3968894
>[Engage the Bartholomew]

Alright bitch, lets dance. Same issue wifh the missiler. Has to fire into a melee.

>>3968894
>[Engage the Bartholomew]
We shall slay giants on this day.

>>3968894
>[Engage the Bartholomew]

>>3968894
>[Engage the Bartholomew]

>>3968894
>>[Engage the Bartholomew]
Aight the fucker wants to dance

Be running in a bit. Hang tight.

File: Spoiler Image (23 KB, 480x270)

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>>3971390

File: Mecha.jpg (397 KB, 1680x1050)

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You can’t enter an exchange with this beast. Even in its current, baffling configuration … it’d melt you on the spot if you so much as entertained the thought of matching the damned thing range for range. The Crossbow can wait. There wasn’t anything that even remotely resembled an effective mid-range combat protocol outside of its rockets and supplementary guns, but even then you didn’t believe that it’d have much luck tracking you with all the interference that the damned Bartholomew was throwing around: leaking fuel, burning from shoulder to hip and with its cooling systems certainly shot, it wouldn’t do much as a member of a lance willfully endangering his own comrade. You elect to keep your Hellion’s feet on the ground in the most literal sense, peppering the Bartholomew with what little effective suppression fire that you can manage with your own auxiliary cannons. It does less damage to it than a rolling boulder would.

The firing sequence that the Bartholomew fires isn’t in rapid succession nor typical of its armament … but the beams are still more than enough to pierce your armor. The tracking of the Bartholomew is less precise, more clumsy than you expected. You hypothesize that your opportunistic cut from before had caused quite a few of its functions to fall out of optimal situations … and that fire, even with control modules to manage external heat and damage, was likely interfering with whatever precision mechanism that was deployed.

You remind yourself, however, that you are still fighting the Alliance Military’s finest.

And one mistake would mean that you would be the next to fall.

>PARTY:
ALLY 01: HELLION 01
-Machine Rifle, Heat Axe, Shield (Vs Kinetic)

>ENEMY INTEL:
FOE 01: BARTHOLOMEW 01
-Status: Significantly Damaged (5 AP from 12 AP)
-Subterfuge/Jamming Configuration, Energy Weaponry, Single Fire (Damaged), Consecutive Fire (Damaged), Short-range/Mid-Range, Melee
FOE 02: CROSSBOW 01
-Status: Normal *(4 AP), Support
Defensive/Scout Configuration, Kinetic Weaponry (Missiles), Mid Range, Cluster Fire, Consecutive Fire

>[Engage in Melee]
>[Engage in Mid-Range]
>[Engage in Long-Range]
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

ALERT! PLEASE READ!
Congratulations on reading this far. That Bartholomew looks like a monster, doesn’t it? Even stacking defenses for a turn might not allow you enough combo points to follow-up the beast to death. Here’s a suggestion: Why not Defer twice in a row using your shield. It may look scary, but the other option is to leave yourself open to the Bartholomew’s follow-up after doing your combo and leaving your fate to the dice! Try it!

>>3971464
>>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

>>3971464
>>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence
guess we go with the hint then, build up ap then pummel it in one go is good

>>3971464
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

You let out a grunt as the monster of a Mech knocks you senseless. The shield practically caves with every impact. The hull integrity of the Hellion holds well enough, but you’re not sure for how long. You couldn’t make the first offensive move: that would have been suicide. There was no way that you’d be able to hack and smash your way against a Mech of that size and armor quickly enough. Even if you found a vulnerable point, the sheer endurance of the Bartholomew would have left enough of it standing to pay it in kind.

Exhausting the Mech wasn’t a preferable option.

But it was the best one.

You are more than aware of the Bartholomew’s limits. Running a power-plant to keep all those armaments, that assist VI, and the jamming tech … with that damage, it was an unintentional mercy that the core hadn’t blown. It’s an odd twist of luck: if the Bartholomew had been fully configured for combat, the cooling systems would have been over-extended on every firing cycle. By being configured in this state, there was less power draw; less heat, more flexible management of its available options. Any other Bartholomew would have been deprived of its combat effectiveness in its totality.

It had more than enough to send you reeling.

Even too close for an exchange, the beams burn into you for all you’re worth.

WARNING! WARNING

But the Bartholomew wasn’t done.

Not yet.

No, not yet.

ALLY 01: HELLION
+1 ACTION
+1 ACTION [Vanguard: Endured Attack]
[ACTION: 3]

>[Engage in Melee]
>[Engage in Mid-Range]
>[Engage in Long-Range]
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence
>Try to Disengage [2 AP]

>>3971569
>>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

>>3971569
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

>>3971569
>>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

>>3971569
>>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence

File: Sadkagi.jpg (31 KB, 392x339)

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Running in a bit. Hang tight.

Sorry I bailed last night. I was hoping to type and post by half-time during Arsenal vs Man City, but I was in a bloody mood by then and went straight to bed. Apologies.

File: Spoiler Image (536 KB, 560x560)

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WARNING! WARNING!

You can feel the Hellion being carved up with every shot. Even on fire and its reactor in shambles, the Bartholomew picks its spots well. You parry and block all you can, but the sheer firepower still available to the Bartholomew is able to, predictably, pick you apart for all you’re worth. The heat indicators and the armor breach points only cause you to swear. You had to try and make a break for it now. There was no way that you’d find an opening against this monster. You’d gotten lucky. That is all that had happened. Your fortune had allowed you to carve that gaping wound into that Bartholomew’s back.

It was a brief offering from the fates in the face of your inevitable demise.

Your only regret … is that Morrigan had to fall with you.

PROXIMITY ALERT! PROXIMITY ALERT!

Another Whitestorm had arrived.

Not close enough to engage, but close enough for it to appear on your sensors. It’s further back. About a mile or two off, closing in quickly. You are outnumbered. Three to one. You’d made it a fight for them, for sure … but it wasn’t enough.

You were done.

Thunder booms, and you—

No, not you.

The Bartholomew’s right arm flies right off, ripping one of its turrets away from the primary module with it. In the distance, the Crossbow rears itself into the open field, launching its missiles into the darkness. High velocity projectiles break the sound barrier in quick succession. One shot, two shots, three … one finding its mark in the Crossbow’s side, tearing its left rack right off and sending it into a smoking heap.

Was that ... from the Whitestorm?

The Bartholomew, so dominant in its addressing of your immediate destruction, struggles to right itself, training its guns—

Away from you.

ALLY 01: HELLION
+1 ACTION
[ACTION: 4]

BARTHOLOMEW.
Status: Critically Damaged (4 AP from 12 AP)

>[Engage in Melee]
>[Engage in Mid-Range]
>[Engage in Long-Range]
>Wait/Defer Combat Sequence
>Try to Disengage [2 AP]

>>3972845
>>[Engage in Melee]
>Free back shot

I mean really who could resist?

>>3972845
>>[Engage in Melee]
>Bartholomew
EAT SHIT MOTHERFUCKER

>>3972845
>>[Engage in Melee]

>>3972854
>[Engage in Melee]

>>3972845
>>[Engage in Melee]
Mechs are huge. I bet they have huge guts!

>>3972854
>>3972856
>>3972861
>>3972872
>>3972879
Sorry, do you guys just want to dump all your AP into one cutscene?

>>3972947
Sounds good to me.

>>3972947
Yes. Its our chance, after all.

>>3972947
why not, make it awesome

>>3972947
Sure

You hit the jump jets, thrusters to full load. The VI automatically locks the output, but you have enough inertia to knock the Bartholomew in its gut. The titanic Mech groans and roars at its pilot is made aware of your presence once more, but as the bloom of the Crossbow’s demise outlines its frame, it’s too late for it to do anything outside of an attempt at disengagement. The beams fire wildly, nicking your shoulder and knee armor. The armor is shredded with every piece of contact; the dispersion field, the neutral catch … there are points where it’s unable to keep up. Metal falls off as though it is skin to be shed. Your Mech blares its warnings louder than they’d ever been. Your defenses are shot. The dispersion field is unable to keep up with the barrage at such a pace. Even in the confines of the command pod, you can feel just how true it is. You don’t know how much of the Hellion had been peeled to the bone.

You don’t care.

The axe screams as it digs into the Bartholomew’s shoulder. The hydraulic compensation mechanisms are at their extremes, protesting against the force that you have the joints and strands applied in their eighty year-old systems. The Bartholomew slams back against you. Yellow turns to orange turns to red in the space of five seconds. You let out an almighty cry, digging the blade out of your enemy’s shoulder, slamming into it in return with your shield before cracking open its domed skull with the Heat Axe at full charge. The lasers zip around wildly, unable to find their target. The angle is too awkward and you are too close for any semblance of precision. The worst they do is tear strands off the top of your Mech.

You pull the axe from its head, kicking the Mech off-balance.

The left side of the torso turns an ugly orange color; oozing from the gashes is what you guess to be the liquefied remains of the cooling systems. Smoke seeps from the Bartholomew’s cracks as it swings wildly. The barrels heat, but the sensors detected no release. The firing locks must have been in place. The Bartholomew’s advanced safety features had kicked in: it was overheating—no, beyond that. It was beyond that already. The Mech was collapsing on itself, its structure barely able to hold itself together. That could only mean that the reactor was in a critical state. The mech was a microwave, cooking itself and its pilot.

Your axe buries itself in the Bartholomew’s chest, breaking at the handle. Sparks fly and steel weeps in an agonizing instant … and the titan, nightmare of the battle plains, finally falls.

You are victorious.

A light hum catches your attention: a common frequency on a private channel.

It registers as hostile.

A private channel?

Who? How?

>Answer it
>Ignore it

>>3973060
>>Answer it

Its from the captured Whitestorm, im sure.

Of course its gonna register as hostile.

>>3973060
>Answer it

>>3973060
>Answer it

>>3973060
>>Answer it

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You flick the comms open.

It was a stupid move, but—

‘Pilot, identify yourself.’

It was … Wray?

No, it … no, it was the Whitestorm, but it sounded—

‘This is identification code AGDA-1112; pilot, identify yourself.’

No, this was definitely Darton Wray.

>Write-In

>>3973139
>This is GAIA-0401 and I have critically injured essential personnel onboard in need of immediate medical attention

>>3973140
>supporting

>>3973139
This is Pilot Gaia-0401, I have Fisher with me, she's injured badly needs medivac. We got caught by the landing and incidental fire. Memphis was with us but I lost track of her. What's going on sir?

>>3973139
>>3973140
this is fine.

Do we know fisher's number though, we could quote it so he knows. Names and all shouldnt be broadcast over alliance comm systems.

File: Fisher.jpg (232 KB, 850x1204)

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‘This is GAIA-0401,’ you return, exhausted in almost every sense. ‘I have critically injured personnel on board in need of immediate medical attention. There’s … Instructor Memphis and the Watch Commander—’

‘On the way, son. Keep this channel open. Shut down any and all activated external feeds.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Silence.

‘Emergency Service VTOLs en route.’

That’s the last that you hear from him, before he kills the feed.

‘Not as easy as the simulator plays it to be … is it?’

You look down to see Fisher’s weak smile, lips pale, eyes half-closed. Her fingers, her flesh-and-blood fingers, dig into your shoulder as she shifts the bloody stumps of her legs, spilling blood and fluid with every move.

>Write-In

>>3973201
>hold on, helps on the way and we can get you to a med team.

>>3973201
No, No it's not. Then again I ever thought it would be. Wray pulled our asses out of the fire.

>>3973201
>>Write-In
"Dammit woman, don't move about so much, save your strength. Why did you jump after me, were you crazy?" Get out the medkit again. At least try to stop the bleeding.

>>3973201
>I don't know... none of the sims you put me through involved facing a Stealth Bart with lance in a Hellion.

Our current objective should be to keep her awake and talking.

>>3973201
Probably start tying some tourniquets around each leg, at least.
If we're desperate we can somehow cauterize the wound

>>3973222
It's not her flesh and blood legs. It's her cybernetics. The ones linked up to her thigh stumps and all that fancy sci-fi mumbo-jumbo.

‘Don’t move,’ you warn her, only to be met with a weak, light chuckle. ‘Save your strength. Help’s on the way.’

‘You’re the youngest pilot … to ever … take down a Bartholomew, you know … and the only one to do it in a Mech without a Chapter or Squadron …’

‘I highly doubt that,’ you retort, snorting. You had to keep her conscious; keep her talking. She’d lost too much blood. At this stage, you fear that if she closed her eyes, it would only be for the last time.

‘Every … recorded take-down of a Bartholomew Unit has …’

‘Has what?’

She doesn’t continue.

‘Fisher?’

‘Delta … Iona …’

‘Fisher?’

‘Father …’

‘FISHER!’

She closes her eyes, her arm sliding off your shoulder.

>Write-In

>>3973285
>attempt medical attention
gotta do something

>>3973285
>>3973290
this

>>3973285
>Slap her face. Don't let her go unconscious.

>>3973290
elevate the legs, should slow down any bleeding/fluid loss, cover wounds with cloth, hopefully bandage from a first aid kit but our shirt should hopefully do in a pinch.

You throw your jacket to the ground as they wheel Fisher away. The remaining medic comes up to check on you, but you brush him off. You didn’t need anyone to take your pulse or dress your wounds. You are still, as far as you care, in operational condition. The medic’s insistence is brushed off on his second attempt as you step back towards the Hellion, eager for your next set of orders. The fighters were up in the air on an intercept course, but the planet’s communications, as they were, were blockaded from any external address. Would the Empire send assistance? There was no way that the blockade would keep the others out so readily? Your House would see that there was something wrong; as would Reinweld’s. Not to mention the corporations that—

‘Senpai!’

Rosaria appears behind a body of personnel, rushing toward you. You meet her with a grim nod.

‘I thought you were—’

‘As did I.’

She looks around.

‘Where’s Miss—’

‘The medics have her,’ you answer, turning away and eager to get back into the confines of your cockpit. If Wray had further orders, then he would surely have them for you by now. The launchport and array were secure and the birds were finally in the air. Maybe then—

A thunderous boom hits the air, prompting you to look upward.

It was an Alliance Drop-Ship. Its trajectory on a north-west—

Another Alliance Mech Squadrons would be on their way.

This night was just getting better and better.

‘Get to an EVAC unit,’ you command Rosaria, catching your foot on the loop and reeling yourself back into the cockpit.

‘Senpai!’ Rosaria calls out, but you’re—

>Run an intercept course
>Stay and defense the base
>Address her concerns, whatever they are
>Write-In

>>3973327
>>Run an intercept course
>>Write-In
Give her our comm code.

>>3973327
>>Run an intercept course

>>3973327
>>Run an intercept course
minimise collateral damage

>>3973327
>>Run an intercept course

>>3973327
>Address her concerns, whatever they are

>>3973436
Normally she timid and scared, if she calls out it must be important

>>3973327
>>Address her concerns, whatever they are

You have the trajectory of that drop-ship.

You’re not sure where they’d be landing, but you couldn’t wait here. The Watch Commander and the Governor had the skies sorted out: your job was to be that last body between their ground forces and whatever they were after here. You doubt that the array and launchport would be safe for long … but you hadn’t received orders to play sentry, either; the civilians and personnel could get themselves to shelters for now, and you … well, you knew what to do. Your fingers fly to the panels; the systems weren’t what you call in order and the Hellion had definitely seen better days, but it was functional enough for a few rounds with the best of them.

The Hellion whines to life at the flick of a switch, standing to full height.

Rosaria jumps up and down on the visual feed, the sole star under your activated spotlights.

‘Get to an EVAC unit and get to a shelter. Don’t stop for anything!’

‘Senpai!’

You close the cockpit, the green and yellow hue of your monitors and displays lighting up the bloody mess that Fisher had left before you. Rosaria jumps up and down, leaping in place as you turn to leave. The personnel grab her by her shoulders as you turn your back to her, setting nav-points on the computer and checking your weapons systems for any bugs and glitches. You don’t know exactly how far north-west you’d have to go to receive your target … but if there was any intention on catching up to them, you had to leave now. You check the weapons lock of your machine rifle, listening to the groan of the shredded excuse of a shield.

The Mech really was built to last.

You shut the external lights, traveling under the cover of darkness through the plains, 60 tons of pockmarked metal and inexperienced pilot. There weren’t many obstacles in the way: for now, you allow the VI to take a straight-lane charter course to the primary Nav-Point. The planet’s comms, however, are still down. There are no broadcasts that allow you to update yourself of Rhysode’s status, but you take that there was nothing good from it. You breathe hard as the reality of combat, finally sinks into you. You had killed. Without hesitation or mercy, you’d torn into your foes with the savagery of a beast and cerebral concerns of a murderer.

For some reason or other, the detachment is … nauseating to you.

More alerts light up your screen. The skies were where the trenches were being dug now.

Your hand lingers against the general comm. Could you …

>>3973633
>Try to establish contact with Wray
>Open the general channel again
>Try to connect to the network (DC: 85)
>Attempt to synchronize comms (DC: 95)
>Keep comm chatter at zero
>Write-In

>>3973635>>3973635
>Keep comm chatter at zero

>>3973635
>>Try to establish contact with Wray

>>3973635
>>Keep comm chatter at zero

>>3973635
>>Try to connect to the network (DC: 85)

The Hellion’s gap in tech is only barely made-up for by the operating system updates, but it’s enough for you to configure the heat dispersion to make yourself as stealthy as a 50 foot behemoth can manage. It’s hard enough traveling under the cover of night in a Mech built for attrition over stealth with its RADAR and sensors of a limited build, but it’s not as if you were spoiled for choice. Above you, all over the primary continent, you can only imagine pockets of resistance trying their best to push back against the invading force. Had they been able to get a comm out to AEGIS command for backup? Would help come at all?

The planet was ill-prepared for the might of an Alliance Battlegroup. Even four Mechs down, you could only hope that the rest of the AEGIS had found their footing to take down the landing parties. Wray had suited up, but it was hardly fair comparing the rest of the—

PROXIMITY ALERT!
PROXIMITY ALERT!
TARGET LOCK DETECTED!

Contact.

>[DODGE] (DC: 55)
>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

>>3974822
>>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

Rolled 100 (1d100)

>>3974822
>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

>>3974822
>>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

>>3974822
>>[SHIELD] (DC: 20)

>>3974824
>>3974831
>>3974832
Lads, you're meant to roll with the prompt.

>>3974833
do we need to with that 100?

>>3974836
Come on, lads. It's a Quest, still. Be a sport.

Rolled 61 (1d100)

>>3974847
k

Rolled 40 (1d100)

>>3974824
>>3974833
>>3974847
Fine. Hope that I don’t ruin this

Rolled 68 (1d100)

>>3974847
nat1 fro rolling without prompt

Rolled 73 (1d100)

>>3974822
i hope i did this right

>>3974901
fug didnt vote
>[DODGE] (DC: 55)

The impact knocks you off-balance, but you’re able to take it at its brunt. It’s a kinetic round; the shot gets its dent, but you’re manning your stations just as well. You ready your weapons system, turning the safeties off everything imaginable. The sensors aren’t quite hot, but there’s enough on the interface to tell you that you had made contact with another deployment of four. The warning blares of a lock-on from multiple sources. You were a sitting duck in the open plain … and elect to not be. Firing off rounds from your machine rifle in bursts of suppression fire, you put the Hellion to task, its damaged body groaning as you try to close range and try to avoid the onslaught of beam weaponry. There aren’t any rockets kissing the air just yet, but—

You swear as the sensors notify you of the Squadron breaking off. Two head on an intercept plot on your current vector while the other leaps into active pursuit. The fourth disappears from your sensors by the time you’d oriented your timing, hitting the jump jets and pushing yourself perpendicular to your pursuant. The other two were keen on closing in on you. The third, to your back, was more than likely there for the kill shot … as is the fourth. Whatever the invasion had going for it, the interference of any practical usage of your RADAR and sensor tech had left you resorting to your gut more often than you liked. You were never an instinctual pilot … and the last hour of this incident had caused you more disc—

A shot nicks your Mech’s shoulder as you hit the jump jets.

You’d miscalculated the front-line duo’s intentions. They weren’t trying to intercept you … they were trying to run you down.

A common frequency on a private channel is brought to your attention on the interface. It registers as hostile.

>Answer it
>Ignore it
>Write-In

>>3974937
>Answer it

>>3974937
>>Answer it

>>3974937
>>Answer it

>>3974937
>>Answer it

File: Nice pic.png (203 KB, 590x332)

203 KB PNG

Despite every bone in your body telling you not to … you do.

‘Imperial Pilot, this is Captain Tavius Kubrick of the Alliance Militar. You are to deactivate your combat systems, power down and surrender. Failure to comply will result in your immediate termination.’

How did you ever entertain the thought of anything less?

>Write-In

>>3974957
>Captain, I've already killed a Stealth Bart and it's lance. Do you really think you have a chance?

>>3974957
>funny, those guys back at the space port sure as hell didnt give me a chance to surrender. not like theyll be able to do so anymore

>>3974957
>>Write-In
Broadband transmit: "NUTS"

Close circuit

>>3974957
Bold words for someone that decided to land in a killbox captain. Previous lance together with Stealth Bart were eliminated. Captain Tavius Kubrick of the Alliance Militar you and your lance are to power down your mechs and surrender, failure to comply will be met with total anachilation no further quarter will be given. Game was rigged from the start Captain, your choice...

Rolled 2 (1d4)

>>3974960
>>3974962
>>3974966
>>3974976
Pains me that no one can key in an RP-esque answer, but that's why we do it.

‘I commend you for going above and beyond your pay-grade in offering me your mercy, Captain Kubrick,’ you let out lightly, nonchalantly firing warning rounds before landing … hard. The gyros were starting to give way from all the turning and strafing you were enduring. ‘A much better show of manners to those ruffians at the launch-port. Not that I’m expecting them to make-up where they’d fallen short. Corpses aren’t exactly things that you expect to extend their pinkies and bow in reverence with oiled coifs, are they?’

Silence.

‘You are at a numerical disadvantage and within our direct engagement range. Power down your Mech and surrender or be terminated. This is your last warning. You have ten seconds to comply.’

Ten ...

You ponder your reply.

Nine ...

>Write-In

>>3975028
i have genius plan,
>pretend we're gonna surrender
>let them closer
>and then AXE the captain in the face

>>3975033
Is this a lock-in of choice or are you asking your fellow players?

>>3975036
asking

File: Okay.gif (34 KB, 750x480)

34 KB GIF

>>3975039
Righto.

>>3975033
I'd rather go with something like:

> No, Captain, I will not. I have just destroyed a supposedly superior force made up of a Crossbow, 2 Whitestorms and a Stealth Bartholomew after an attempted surprise attack. Therefore, [Elvish]I would ask you to surrender yourselves to Lord Mishima to stand trial for violating the Accords.[/Elvish] Otherwise I will be forced to add to this mornings kill count and I do not wish to.

Play up the aura of a genteel high ranked Mechwarrior Knight.

I think your suggestion is more fitting for other less noble origins.

(This is my opinion on a possible Write-in rather than my vote)

>>3975028
one behind lining up, two closing on our front, one off scopes likely being a missile boat or long range sniper... i think we bit off more than we could chew

(not a vote just thinking about ways out of this scenario)

>>3975033
i assume they are able to see us power down and disable combat protocols, dunno how long it would take to reboot

>>3975028
I mean if we're built for tanking lets tank.
I say we start moving towards any terrain that may be cover, while tanking the pot shots from the third and the possible fourth, in a direction away from the two (assuming melee) frames closing on us to slow their ability to engage us, be a delaying force until we're relieved.

as for comms response:
>"I'm afraid I can't do that Captain, you and your Alliance have interrupted what was looking to be a rather magical night. However feel free to power down your own Mechs, I promise we Imperials are quite accomodating to PoWs."

feel free to comment or adjust, im not very good at this sort of stuff

I'll be running in a few hours, so hopefully you guys will have a response by then.

>>3975028
My vote:

> No, Captain, I will not. I have just destroyed a supposedly superior force made up of a Crossbow, 2 Whitestorms and a Stealth Bartholomew after an attempted surprise attack. Therefore, [Elvish]I would ask you to surrender yourselves to Lord Mishima to stand trial for violating the Accords.[/Elvish] Otherwise I will be forced to add to this mornings kill count and I do not wish to.

>>3976201
ill support it, forgot last time we had tank and air support and were a techsavvie background that probably helped with a quick boot

>>3976201
sure lets do this