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A lone MechWarrior sits atop a lonely hill overlooking the Spaceport of Olaus, empty fields of sparse grass and rocks covering the area outside the city as far as they eyes can see. A venerable 'mech stands by his side, casting an ever shrinking shadow across the hillsides of Skandia II. From the surface, Skandia's sun appears like a small yellow, not much smaller than the star that once nourished and gave life to humans on Terra, but it's light is much more faint, and the dawns on Skandia 2 cast a low orange hue over the planet for hours before the dim light finally illuminates the surface's day side. Today is the pilot's last day for the foreseeable future when he can see the dawn in it's full glory, so he takes in the sight as the distant rumble of a dropship's engines from the starport finally reaches him. The stars of the city in the distance glimmer like little fires, dimming out as the time passes and the sun's light overpowers them.

By the time the street lights are turned off, he's already in his mech, a battle-scarred Centurion, travelling at a jogging pace towards the starport. He is in no hurry, as the new recruits are still just arriving and getting vetted by Mimir for any warning signs, before being taken to the recruitment office. Still, having spent the past few months on Skandia, he's never seen this many Leoapards land and take off from the starport in a single day, not to mention in just one morning. And that's without even taking into consideration the several spherical shapes that tower in the far corner of the port: the larger dropships that have been gathering the forces of the newly formed republic, Union classes that have probably served several different nations states over their long history. Using the zoom in his cockpit to observe these steel giants from far away, he can see that the paint is still new and drying on most, the insignia of the Rasalhague Republic smeared in places. Others still bear the Draconis Combine's insignias, forces from the neighbouring state assisting in the Ronin War and helping the Republic get on it's feet.

By the time he passes through the large gates and trods past the Dragon standing guard at the gate with an entourage of support infantry, the first of the Unions have launched. Staring the massive ship rise into the air with a plume of smoke that lasts for several minutes after the ship's become nothing more than the shining light of it's lifting engines in the distance, he throttles down the Centurion to let a massive cargo vehicle pass in front, carrying several mechs on it's back that are covered by several layers of tarp to hide their types. His mech is tall and easily towers over the cargo vehicle, but the mechs it carries dwarf even his own 'mech: someone is going to be on the receiving end of a Lance of Assault Mechs. All across the starport, similar activity takes place as the hustling and bustling of a normal military base and a starport gets combined into a cacaphonic melody of alerts blaring from loudspeakers, the engines of vehicles, mechs and AeroSpace fighters whooshing overhead merging into one concert of military organization. The colors are a blur: everything is tinted a deep brownish orange from the rising sun, but the fresh coats of blue and white of Rasalhague are mixed with the dulled out reds of the Draconis Combine. There's even a few blinding whites, ComStar operatives who are overseeing the delicate operations patented technology. It brings back memories of old times, times of war when the hustle and bustle meant that the enemy was already dropping lances right on top of their heads, or they were about to do the same to their enemies.

At least the klaxons aren't blaring this time.

He makes slow progress through the starport, giving way to the many cargo trucks loaded with palettes of ammunition for SRMs and LRMs, crates filled with spare parts and several more convoys of mechs covered by tarp. A few lances of Light and medium Mechs pass him by during the short trip; he's never seen so many Locusts and Wasps before with a fresh coat of paint. A lance of Dragons also waddles past his mech on the way towards the Draconis marked Union. By the time he reaches the end of the runways, the amount of different types of mechs and camos he's seen are probably contending for a top spot over his long career. He even saw several mechs with insignias he only abrely recognized: mercs, fueling up and making final preparations before joining the war party. But there's a good reason for all these mechs and armanents being loaded up and taking off: the Republic and the Dominion are going to war, this time together.

Old warriors of the combine who refused to leave Rasalhague space have taken up arms and are trying to smother the newborn nation before it has a chance to mature and become a great power of the Inner Sphere. These so called "Ronins" have made a serious ruckus on Orestes. For the past month forces have been assembling on Skandia, and they are finally heading out to kick these rebellious elements off of the planet and free the Republic of these warriors who don't realize that Fourth Succession War is over. Of course, such assaults are happening all across the republic, but Skandia is the only planet assembling two forces at once, one of which is going to have a piece of it commanded by him.

The air outside the mech is cold, and it stings his skin after leaving the warm cockpit. There are several barracks lined up on the far end of the runways, along with administration buildings. One of the leopards taxis up besides him into one of the parking spots besides the large complex, workers signalling with batons to the pilot, just like they used to back in the golden days of aviation. When so many planes and drophips are landing and taxiing, nobody is willing to take the risk that a software malfunction can cause an accident worth millions, if not billions of C-Bills. As the rear lamp lowers, several lines of of men and women begin to unload, most of them wearing a variation of Draconis or Lyran military fatigues, but he recognises some Davion uniforms as well as a few that he doesn't know the origins of. "At least no Capellans this time..."

The line of cadets carrying rucksacks disappears into one of the barracks, and are replaced with a crowd of technicians and starport pilots who begin to take out the seats and cargo from the back of the Leopard, whilst a different group is already loading up a lance of Panthers and Javelin's into the recently freed mechbays. Not a minute wasted today, it seems. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, his hand finally free of the shakyness he's experienced this whole morning as he enjoys the sweet embrace of Nicotine. He briefly wonders if the addiction will kill him before one of the new recruits will, but by the time he finishes his mind is already on other things. The Leopard has been loaded too, and with nothing else to watch for amusement, he snuffs out the cigarette butt against the concrete paving and walks inside the barracks.

The new recruits are all here for the same job: mercs, hired to serve the Republic, units that are meant to be low-cost solutions to the military's many growing pains. Especially now, whilst the Ronins are running around and causing havoc, the KungsArmé doesn't have the capacity to be everywhere at once, and raising all the regiments that they'd need would bankrupt the Republic before it could celebrate it's first anniversary of freedom in centuries. Men and women from all across the Inner Sphere have made their way to Skandia to answer the call to arms: a chance at a new life in a new nation, the perfect chance for those looking for an adventure or a fresh beginning away from all the powers they are already familiar with. Of course, only some of them will be chosen; even fewer of those will be serving directly under him. Giving the mechwarriors lining the corridors and clutching their rucksacks one more look, he heads upstairs to the offices where he has papers of his own to fill out before this new life can begin.

A few hours of unpleasant medical exams, signings and briefings later, he is outside once more. The orange hue of the early morning has disappeared, but the bustle of the starport has barely died down. Some of the dropships have left, and most of the larger elements have already left planetside, but the real logistic nightmare of the support companies has only just started. Thankfully, his own ship had been fueled and resupplied days prior: he received a mission closeby that would test his new MechWarriors before the rest of the KungsArmé's recruits had a chance to pull the trigger on their newly painted mechs in the fight against any Ronin forces. Probably for the better: he didnt give much of a chance to his, or anyone else's recruits if they had to fight the veteran warriors who refused to leave Republic Space. No, he was going the opposite way from Orestes, and dealing with a matter significantly less important, but no less dangerous. He was resupplied so early so that their low priority objectives wouldn't interfere on this cruicial day with the larger force's objectives. It all made sense, but at the end of the day he was just happy he didn't have to wait for someone in this chaos to come fuel him up.

Taking the opportunity of another Leopard pulling up close to the barracks, he climbed back inside his Centurion and after a brief exchange with the pilot, and reminiscing with them about some nostalgic memories when it turned out they were also from New Oslo, he managed to hitch a ride in the back of the shuttle. It wasn't long before they were already taking off with a fresh load of supplies and towards the armada in orbit. From the feed of exterior cameras he could see the myriad black dots that were all DropShips loaded with mechs and regular forces, as well as undoubtedly a few WarShips that would ensure the assault didn't meet a gruesome end. One of those black dots would soon become his home, and the home of his new company. He hadn't decided on a name yet, and he had until the end of the day to tell Republic officials, so he figured he's wait on that a little more.

No doubt in a few hours of time the lucky few who get assigned to him will be taking the same ride as him, looking at the same sky and wondering which ship will be theirs. When they'll arrive, he'll have the time to figure out the little details like a name and a title for this new operation, but for now he wanted to take stock of what they were given as well as get a look over his new DropShip.

Suffice to say, reality was not what he expected. Union classes are notorious for bad crew accommodations, and he was ready to see a cramped corridor when he entered, but instead he was met with a different sight: the rusted and patched hull of a truly ancient Black Eagle looked back at him as his shuttle approached, a vessel that had not been produced since before even the Star League came into existence; a design from a time when the Terran Hegemony waged endless war with the other powers of the Inner Sphere. How one of these ancient beasts survived and got into the hands of the Republic were questions he didn't even dare to ask: some of the Union classes he served upon were centuries old as well, but this was something else. If they had been given this, it must've meant that even the most common Dropships were in too high of a demand to give away. He could only imagine what his fellow commanders of unofficial Republic merc companies received as a vessel. Then again, he couldn't complain; it was better than receiving a Leopard and then being sent off to war. Still, he knew that he'd have plenty to do before he'd have his first briefing with his new pilots in a few hours. He just hoped the mechs the Republic gave them were of a never vintage that the ship: if he was given a lance of Mackies, he promised himself that he'd throw himself out the first airlock. If he could find one by himself on such an unfamiliar ship. Sighing softly, he turned away from the screens and began to prepare himself for transfer to his new vessel, and began punching in the new authentication codes into his aged Centurion's command console. "Ulrik... what did you get yourself into this time. I though this was the sort of thing that made you quite the military for good..." The reflection in the console's back screen didn't answer, and after waiting for a few seconds for an answer that wouldn't come, he'd replace it with a view of diagnostics. It was time to get ready for a new life of war.

((Collab Post between @Letter Bee and @Smike.))

Alvin Davion

The night terrors won't leave him; they might never leave him. Alvin Davion, Bastard of Argyle, was as bound by his memories as he had been bound by chain and collar. Those Draconis folk had been thorough in breaking him, to the point where even after his escape and brief return home, he still felt unclean, dirty, and averse to the touch of others, although he could still stand a well-intentioned pat and even a hug.

Not that anyone would give him one; they didn’t know him well enough. And quite frankly, they didn’t want to know him - The Davions were only better than the other houses in relative terms and had their own blood on their hands. He knew this.

Either way, he went through the motions of walking everywhere he was expressly permitted to go, sampling the local cuisine in the cafeteria, and trying to see if there were anyone else other than the Commander, whom it was rumored he should keep away from - With his luck, his very bad luck, there probably were.

Nakano Fuka

Fuka had never been to Rasalhague before. Its protectorate status had been far removed from the duties of her family, none of their resources were invested in the territory. It was some other part of the Combine's problem, a place to be ruled by some unknown governor that the Nakanos would never deal with. She knew the gist of course: the Combined Soldiery had bravely sought to civilize the barbarian Vikings, said Vikings resisted throughout the 23rd century. One of them assassinated the Coordinator in 3004 and then a whole bunch of them sided with the Lyrans during the most recent dust-up.

Now, due to politics Fuka did not particularly understand nor care to look into, Rasalhague was independent and being used as a buffer by two empires. To her that sounded like they were just going to get taken over during the next Succession War (assuming of course, that the Ronin didn't win) but hey, that was a problem for the Rasalites. It was a good thing that they were aware of the danger too, or else she'd be out of a job.

But there was no mission yet, no contract to fulfill. For the moment Fuka was just killing time, taking in the sights of the city. Anyone who happened to see her could tell that she was a native of Kurita space with her resplendent kimono and delicate features, but it was unlikely that anyone would peg her as a veteran. The most obvious of her tells were hidden away for the moment, swords and rifles in the cases strapped to her back and a pistol tucked away in a fold of her robe.

She wasn't trying to scare anyone off, but she certainly wasn't going to walk around unarmed.

It was coincidence after coincidence that led her to Alvin. She had jumped across the Inner Sphere, snatched up the first opportunity she could find to pilot again, and had only walked into the cafeteria out of the vaguest notion of getting something to chew on...and still there he was.

Fuka stared blankly at the dirty blond mop of hair for a moment, trying to calculate just how impossible the situation was. The exercise was quickly abandoned in favor of plopping down next to her old captive, the young samurai grinning at the sheer strangeness of it all.

"Well would you look at that! The slave's managed to stay free."

Alvin Davion

Alvin looked at her in shock and said, “Ex-Mistress.”

Then his eyes widened a little less as he said, “Good to know you stayed safe.”

He was surprised to know that he meant it. Either way, Alvin dared to ask, “How’s life been treating you? You seem to be in good health.”

Nakano Fuka

Ex-mistress? As far as Fuka was concerned, she would always be his better. The moment he had allowed her to slap the cuffs on him Alvin had signed away his dignity, even if he wasn't doing hard labor at the moment.

Her devil's grin only grew wider as she reached for a cigarette, giving her captive a look up and down. "Same to you. I'll admit, I expected you to get caught again."

The question of her health drew a shrug. "Doing as well as ever I suppose, just waiting for my new gig to start up."

Alvin Davion

Alvin was as good-looking as ever, although it was sheer willpower and a little vanity that kept him taking care of his appearance after what the Draconis soldiers - Not exclusively male - had… Best not to dwell on that. The point was, the young man had grown, become more athletic and well-toned and the softness of his face was more controlled. He was more appealing to women and a few men than ever if Fuka ever thought of him in those terms.

He then said, “I managed to get lucky and stow away on a JumpShip. Got back home, too.”

Only to realize no one did care, he thought before continuing, “I got paid and told to do whatever I wanted. So I went here and hoped to find a purpose in life.”

He would not state that he hadn’t found one yet.

Nakano Fuka

He was handsome enough to be sure, but Alvin's appearance rarely entered Fuka's mind. She saw him more as a curiosity than anything, at one point a danger but now broken down and rendered harmless. Like a feral raccoon that had gotten stuck in her garbage can, Fuka had picked the little slave up and housetrained him, only to turn him free. Now here he was coming back to her, his submissive nature driving him to show deference to his captor.

As was fair and right. Fuka took a drag on her cigarette, digging through another pocket of her kimono (every outfit she owned had them sewn into the inside lining, there was nothing more annoying than not having enough carrying capacity) before producing a personal set of chopsticks.

"Kind of them, I suppose. They didn't want you to stick around? Your uh, family, I mean."

She figured that he preferred not to have his connection to Davion blabbered about in an open cafeteria, in the same way, she didn't really want him to mention just how she had ended up in Rasalhague. They weren't secrets per se, but they also weren't necessarily to be casually dropped in conversation while DC troops were still milling about.

"You went through a lot to see them again."

An obvious statement said as a test. Fuka was curious to see how her prisoner responded, snagging a piece of what appeared to be herring with lingonberry jam from his plate.

Alvin Davion

Alvin nodded and said, “They didn’t want me, and escaping from your family was apparently my only notable achievement.”

He then followed up with, “You know, your own family at least thought of you fondly before… You know. I didn’t even have that privilege. But honestly, even though you had your own reasons, thank you anyway for the help.”

The young man then looked at her in the eye and said, “I know what you think of me. I should have killed myself before letting you take me to hell in this life; that much is true. But somehow I could not bring myself to hate you, if only because you didn’t touch me. That, and I can’t bring myself to try and ‘prove’ I’m stronger than I was before - I’m honest with myself enough to know that I might not be, despite my wishes.”

Alvin then sighed and finished with, “I guess I’m dying without being loved… Or having someone to love. Tempted to latch onto even the slightest bit of kindness, real or perceived. I know you think I’m pathetic, yet I can’t hate you - Your folk did a good job of…”

Of abusing me to submission.

For a brief moment, Alvin’s eyes flared with hatred, but this was suppressed and denied, fading away into resignation and acceptance.

Nakano Fuka

The morsel was pretty good, a bit oily for her taste but the tartness of the lingonberries mostly covered it up. As far as cafeteria slop went, Fuka placed it near the top of the pile.

"Apparently so."

She knew enough about Alvin to know that they had been at about equal experience when they first met, and that utter disaster would have done nothing to endear him to his family. Assuming he had explained how he had escaped, he couldn't even have claimed to free himself!

She snorted at the mention of her own 'escape', smoke curling from her nostrils like one of the mythical beasts Draconis had gotten its name from. Her family life had been fine, nowhere near abusive but not entirely loving either. Knowing her parents, they treated her leaving as more of a stain on their reputation than a reason to worry about her.

Fuka allowed their eyes to meet, letting the bastard explain his feelings. It gave her time for another drag.

"Not what I expected to hear." she admitted. "Thanks, I don't hate you either!"

She laughed, the sound almost musical in its mirth.

"But seriously, that's why you're out here? Looking for love?"

The question was asked out of genuine curiosity like it had been posed by a scientist trying to confirm her thesis. The way his eyes flashed with anger suggested that there was something stern within it, but as soon as it had appeared it went away.

The MPs really had kicked his ass well.

Alvin Davion

Alvin answered, “Looking for a parental figure. Too bad the commanding officer hates Davions. Well, guess I made a bad choice - Not the first time.”

Nakano Fuka

"Lots of people hate Davion, and there are plenty of reasons to do so. You guys turned a federated democracy into a hereditary position, showing the Sphere your hypocrisy while sneering at the Combine."

That came straight from the schoolbooks. Fuka didn't really care for the propaganda one way for the other, but as far as she knew it was a true statement.

"You-Davion I mean- like to talk about freedom and whatever, but you've still got lords like the rest of us. People don't like that sort of dishonesty."

She said it without any anger or malice, simply explaining things the way she saw them. Every House had people who hated it, that was how things worked when you split the Inner Sphere between warring states.

"All this to say, so what if he doesn't like you? People aren't going to like me either, but that's not my problem Just do your job and don't get blown up."

Alvin Davion

Alvin latched onto that last statement and said, “You know what? Maybe I will.”

He smiled a little and continued, “Maybe my behavior towards you isn’t because you’re above me, but because you’re unintentionally kind to me. Or I could just be hearing things. Either way, thank you.”

Hamazasp shuffled among the trail of recruits. He relished the frigid morning breezes; this exact temperature heralded his earliest daily routines back... Well, "home" took multiple meanings over his adult career. Either he'd acquired a plethora or he maintained none. He likely possessed one with his family, though his sister had burned it and he never bothered to repair it. He glanced behind him, then before him. He calculated impossibly tedious wait times wherever he situated himself. With no apparent gain or loss, he resolved not to expend his inaugural hour on Skandia amidst the doldrums of bureaucracy. And so he drifted out of sync with the caravan to, at least temporarily, embark on a miniature adventure.

Few in this installation would freely escort him around the facility, certainly not with his unverified registration. So long as Mimir hadn't chewed him up yet, he was relegated to the confines of the terminal. His preliminary visit was a tinted window, beyond which hills rolled in the nearby landscape. The skies grew increasingly bluer, and the wind's ripples rustled through the local flora, mostly grasses. Hamazasp exhaled, pretending that the stuffy air inside was fresh, practicing for his own vehicle. He attempted to spot fauna from such a distance. A herd of cattle grazed on the gentle slopes. Telemark breed: you could tell because they appeared to be pressed between two giant sheets of caramel paint. He imagined himself piloting a battlemech and coloring the cows that way. Bovines were slippery when the situation arose; he'd have to catch the heifer by surprise. His superior officer, whoever he or she would be, wouldn't allow it.

In the foreground, mechs stomped into loose organizations. He mused whether they were allied, or supervising, mercenaries or simple mechanics aligning them like toys. He couldn't settle on his favorite design. He hoped to be awarded something manageable: a Light, maybe a Medium. He'd gratefully accept whatever was on his plate, be they mere leftovers. He spotted a Centurion jogging from the horizon. What in the world would drive a pilot to travel that wayward? Hamazasp tracked the lone stranger to its halt at the periphery of Olaus. What an amusing sight!

He traveled down a corridor to its furthest extent, then repeated until he was utterly lost, or would be without maps posted everywhere in the spaceport. There, he found seating and occupied it. He surveyed the indoor scenery, fixating at last on a poster. It was assuredly propaganda, but regardless he perused it. Why not? Some schmuck spent an entire workday — no, judging from the misaligned center, a lunch break — designing the ensemble. He identified various national symbols and guessed at others. He'd require additional research in the future. The bright blue Scandinavian patterns and designs highlighted the culture into which he'd soon be immersed. The colors were striking; he enjoyed it. Sine message, of course.

His gaze shifted towards a marble sculpture of a woman, roughly his age by appearance. How often had passersby ignored her? Was she an important historical figure, or symbolic of a theme? If the former, she was undoubtedly well past her prime if not already deceased. If the latter, well, her complexion was too nice to convey anything of significance. The youth of the nation, perhaps? He wondered if he'd find romance in this conflict. A girl that wonderful was out of his league. What embarrassing thoughts. He was grateful to ponder alone, where his musings wouldn't see daylight. His vacation concluded, he stood up to rejoin his pack.

He bore no remorse cutting in line; he simply reclaimed space he'd earned previously. At about twenty cadets from the front, he focused attention to the panel of receptionists, quietly listening to questions they asked and his forebears' answers. He would not be caught unawares. Nonetheless, he pondered a select couple in detail as he approached the rightmost of the array. She reminded him of the statue: beautiful, unflinching, and cold. The warm glow of her screen bounced off her. Her judgmental stare was itself sufficient to unnerve most, but Hamazasp was unimpeded. "Salutations, young madam! Has today fared well so far?"

She blinked, unamused. "Name?"
"Hamazasp Sulser. The Third, if I recall."
"Ess Eeh Are. Planet of origin?"
That was a curious question; he hadn't quite settled on a wholly satisfactory answer. Place of birth felt best. "Illiushin, in the city of New Lismore, on the continent of Harbor."
"Haych Eye Enn. Passport?"
He pulled out his booklet, unlocked its verigraph, and spread it open to show her. As she punched numbers into her computer, he decided to risk a conversation. "What remains of your shift?"
The clacking paused. "Three, four hours." It resumed. "What is your purpose here?"
Pleasure. "Business. What do you have lined up with the conclusion of your work?"
"I dunno. Probably a holovid, then sleep." She stamped a page and returned it to him. "Hold still; I'm reading you for illnesses."
He remained motionless, then slacked after hearing a beep. "Are any elements irregular?"
She shook her head. "You're a Merc, correct?"
"Indeed; thanks for asking!"
"Your barracks will be out those doors, the sixth building on your left."
"Much appreciated! I hope your evening's entertainment is as lovely as the rest of your afternoon!"
"Welcome to Rasalhague." Heavens above, she smiled. Her face reformed to stone. "Next!"

No sooner had Hamazasp taken six steps than he was seized by the shoulder. "Please come with me, sir. Let's have a word together."
His overly cheerful demeanor must have caused himself issues yet again. He complied, and was led to a purposely blank room. A lady whose insignia featured a bearded man motioned to a chair, which Sulser accepted. The door closed. She cleared her throat, pulling out a datapad. "What are your prior occupations?"
"Largely dairy and data analysis. I have operated complex machinery, if you have concerns regarding my qualifications."
"Hm," grunted the interrogator. "Alright, gouda and camembert: what are the differences?"

That was an odd comparison. Even if perfunctory with ulterior motives, someone's care for his craft was touching. "Gouda tends to run in its adolescence, and crumbles with accumulated years. Camembert does the reverse. Also, camembert's rind is typically eaten in Kurita and Steiner (but not Taurian or Capellan) social circles, whereas gouda's... I mean, it won't kill you, but I highly recommend against it."

He stretched. "You can make both with the same milk, but I personally think that certain breeds function better with regards to branding. The vast majority of grocers would laugh you right out of the market if you sold them a camembert wheel with a Jersey on the package." He held up a finger. "You know, Jerseys might actually suffice if you're marketing pepper jack. Haven't tried it myself, so I cannot guarantee the results. Can I interest you in my experience with gorgonzola?"

The agent's fingers pinched the bridge of her nose as her peer rapped upon the entrance. "Get out," she muttered.

Hamazasp opened the egress, and a seedy Mechwarrior locked eyes with him, accompanied by the soldier who directed Sulser earlier. Sulser saluted. "Enjoy your stay; they're rather friendly!" He marched off to his quarters. All too easy. He was no secret informant, but these encounters amused him endlessly.

Sulser heard his compatriots' quarrel several paces from the structure itself. He rounded the corner and addressed them. "Greetings, friends! I'm assigned to this dormitory, and I wish to introduce myself!"
"Oh gosh, we can't handle this many," a fellow replied.
"What seems to be the issue?"
"We don't have enough beds for each of us," stated a separate acquaintance. "You're going to have to use the floor."
Sulser scanned the area. A half wall of bunks displayed no traces of human activity. "Who's claimed that section?"
"Nobody," answered the first warrior. "Not unless you count the ant colony."
"And the higher ups appear to have other priorities," bemoaned the second. "You'd have to be used to gutter conditions to slumber there."
"And I arrived the soonest, so the bed is mine."
"Nonsense; the order was arbitrary. I'm the experienced driver, so I take seniority."

Hamazasp abandoned the group to its bickering in favor of the ants. He crouched and viewed the scene. Those were pretty large grunts. He squinted, and... was that the queen? Her choice of location was truly desperate to expose herself thusly. He withdrew a roundel of colby from his overcoat, his beloved empire's parting gift. He'd planned to crack it at an appropriate moment; this seemed fitting. He tore off a piece and placed it beside the monarch as a peace offering. As her royal subjects hurriedly inspected, then dismantled the foreign object, he climbed to the top bunk and bit the cheese himself, reminiscing on bygones and the day's events. His overlooked his lactose intolerance for this special celebration in the quiet. No comrade would share his haunt for a five meter radius, anyways. Yet another trinket of his previous lives vanished into the aether.

His younger selves were dead. May life blossom anew in their absence. The Sulser way.

At last, he was free of the prick of a recruiter. He’d heard the locals weren’t too keen on mercenaries, but one would expect some humility when they admitted to their presence being necessary. The recruiter himself even admitted they needed them. Well, he said he didn’t see a reason to hire mercenaries and then spelled out the reason for hiring mercenaries, poor fucker probably got hit upsode the head with an axe too many times playing with all the other little vikings in daycare to notice the contradiction. But the slog wasn’t done yet. Karel was immediately directed to a nearby battalion aid station and put through a battery of medical examinations, even a damn height measurement. The nerve of these people. But with the medical finally over, he could go grab a beer once he navigated the place, with most of the signs being written in a diabolical mix of Swedish - an even angrier version of German - and that gibberish the Dracs speak, and found a suitable watering hole.

At least the search was worth it. With a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of ‘class III’ beer - whatever that meant but it tasted right - in the other and some time before the scheduled departure of the shuttle he was directed to, Karel found a spot with a good view of the spaceport near where his shuttle was supposed to be departing from, perched himself on a crate and watched ‘Mechs go by to get an idea of what he might be working with. Locusts, ubiquitous for centuries. Not great, not terrible. An Urbanmech. Ugh. Hopefully they had something with a bit more pep in its step than a Lloyd Marik-Stanley Aerospace graduate after a shot and a beer. Some assault or heavy ‘Mechs, fat chance of that. Wasps, ‘Mechs with jump jets, actual arms and hand actuators. That was a bit more interesting. A Whitworth… God damnit. One couldn’t expect much from a newly established power, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Lyrans and Dracs alike just dumped their trash equipment on the fledgling republic and claimed material support for the PR, but not even a single 1D Commando? Or a rusted 1K Phoenix Hawk the Dragon couldn’t be bothered to steel brush and paint?

And what would their DropShip look like, and what would it be? A Union? A Leopard? Maybe a Danais? He’d even seen a Buccaneer in what looked like hastily applied military colors fly overhead. Then again, perhaps a civvie DropShip wouldn’t be bad, unless all the amenities were stripped down to save weight. Anyway, time to find out. After swinging by the pub again, now armed with a Hel Special for the road and eight more beer bottles in one of his bags, he found his way to the appropriate boarding gate with the aid of a helpful cargo handler - and one of the beer bottles - in time for the flight. And boy, a DropShip it was. Someone dropped it onto a gutter and left it there for half a millennium. At least the crew might be good? Maybe…?

---

Unlike others, Kat has arrived to the dropship in relatively high spirits. If there was one thing worse than getting your ass kicked piloting a Battle'Mech, it was having to drive an Agri'Mech afterwards. She imagined this was how combat pilots felt once they left the service and were made to fly airliners. 'I used to be a god, you know?' kind of feeling. That was why she signed up when she heard about the state sponsoring new merc bands, really. She did not mind if she spent the rest of her days in the repair bay, as long as she was closer to a battle and as far away as she could from any barns and cows and pitchforks. With her age, she was entirely fine taking to the field with a tractor and dragging a few 'Mech corpses home to cannibalize. That said, if she got a chance to drive a proper 'Mech again... Who was she to say no? Not that she expected to be given a pilot seat, looking like she was seventy and limping around.

The recruiter was priceless though. After the entire 'Blah blah blah Republic, blah blah blah Mercs, blah blah blah state interest. Blah blah blah.' speech, his face when he checked her credentials and found out she was fifteen years his service senior and her last rank outranked him was priceless. He first tried to recruit her back to her old post, and when he failed, tried to save face with something along the lines 'Well, the regulars don't take cripples anyway', to which she responded with "Yarrr, me peg leg can still kick yer booty down to Davy Jones' Locker!" After that, she got promptly ushered through.

That said, her enthusiasm was sustaining fire when she looked at the steaming pile of ship they were to call home for the foreseeable future. A black fucking eagle. Where did they did this piece of scrap, in the museum? That spaceframe must be composed of fatigue cracks and repair jobs by now, and none of the original parts could still be present. Right? "Well, at least I won't run out of things to do anytime soon..." She grunted as she stepped up the ramp, looking at the faces she passed by that likewise expressed various degree of disapporval at the ship's state.

---

"You are a strange Drac."

"I'm not a Drac."

"Ah, but you served the coordinator, did you not, Zohra?"

"I did, but that doesn't make me a Drac," Zohra puffed, rolling over onto her back as she studied the nondescript building within which she found herself. Sandberg Imports was real she suspected. The legality of whatever was inside of the countless crates neatly arranged on the floor below seems far less certain. Her grandfather had always told her to avoid the Yakuza. However, the man had never left Algedi, much less met a Yakuza wakagashira willing to buy him a drink, Zohra reasoned. For all his wisdom, the ancient Abdullah had missed out on a great many things, not that she had any intention of telling him.

"Then what does it make you?"

"Azami."

"A-z-a-m-i," she said, spelling out the words in the singsong tones Zohra had come to expect from the native Rhasalgians. "What does that mean?"

"It's a people. My people. A system of planets and a faith."

"Controlled by the Combine?"

"Ha, it is complicated. We rule our own planets. We follow our own faith. However, for these privileges House Kurita demands a hefty fee. We pay this price in minerals and by the services of our precious Arkab Legions."

"We call that indentured servitude here and we fought long to escape it."

"We differ in our views, I suppose," Zohra said with a sigh, a frown tugging at the edge of her lips.

"I am sorry, have I annoyed you? Her companion purred, a hand running playfully across Zohra's chest.

"You? Never, Mathilda, never, I am merely distracted by other thoughts. My pleasant time here with you must unfortunately come to a most unwelcome end. And soon...far too soon. Duty calls and I must answer."

"No," Mathilda replied and Zohra could see the hint of anger in her pale eyes, eyes that seemed to be carved from the very ice that covered Skandia. "Whatever business you have, it can wait. No need to rush off. Stay a while longer. Come back to bed."

"I would happily and with all my heart, my dear lady, were it not for the shuttle expecting my imminent arrival at the spaceport."

"Liar!"

"Never, I would never lie to you my sweet," Zohra said, gently grabbing hold of Mathilda's head and pulling her into a long, lingering kiss.

Rising up from the bed as the two finally separated, Zohra dressed meticulously, ignoring the annoyed noises that eminated from the bed. Her clothes were where she had left them. Folded in a neat pile on the night stand. And no worse for wear. A high achievement in her opinion, considering the quality of the tavern where they had spent most of the night.

"You have no BattleMech. You have few paltry sum of C-bills remaining. And you owe me a sizable debt, Zohra," Mathilda scolded, sitting up and pulling the fur blanket up against her chest as she fumes with annoyance. The scene would have made a good painting Zohra mused.

Mathilda did not call her dispossessed, Zohra thought, reflecting on the subtle kindness. True or not, by choice or cruel circumstance, no title..or insult for that matter, had stung Zohra as much to hear.

"Indeed, I did not have a BattleMech, not until this morning, but I have secured fresh employment with a new mercenary company backed by your very republic. More importantly, they are offering me a BattleMech to pilot."

"Ack! I have heard of this. It is a bad idea. Fritiof called it a fool's errand when they told him about it. Mercs are not liked here. This is an easy way to get rid of them."

"You and your brother are right, no doubt, but I had little choice. I needed a BattleMech."

"And what of your debt to me?"

"Do not worry, my fair mistress, Zohra Amina Imalayen does not leave her debts unpaid. I will repay you in full, Mathilda, I swear upon all that I hold dear, but first I must see to the requirements of my new duty."

"Ah, duty, an accursed word, well brave MechWarrior, you have had your fun, and so now you can heedlessly choose to abandon a helpless woman."

You hardly seem like the helpless sort, Mathilda. Those gentleman that you command seem like they could give the Fox Teeth's a run for their money. Ex-military, I would wager, by the look of their weapons and not the lazy kind given their movements. You know, I was half convinced that they were going to throw me through the window of your office when I came calling."

"You looked like a Drac," Mathilda said with a shrug and impish grin. She patted the empty spot on the bed next to her, "Come back to bed, Zohra. Ignore this silly contract and whatever lies the FRR sold you. Come here and I will help you forget all about your metal monstrosity."

"A tempting offer, I promise you, but I have C-bills to earn and a galaxy to save."

"Save! You mech jockeys are all the same! More like destroy! You and these Ronin will grow no plants and build no buildings."

"En dålig hantverkare skyller på sina verktyg. Isn't that what your people say," Zohra said with laughter in her eyes.

"A weapon is not a tool."

"Every tool is a weapon and every weapon is a tool, at least according to the instructors back on Algedi."

"You are hopeless, Zohra."

"Usually they call me an optimist."

"Hopeless suits you better," Mathilda said, sneaking up on Zohra, wrapping her arms around the MechWarrior's waist as her voice faded with resignation. Standing by the bed, Zohra could feel Mathilda's warm breathe against her neck and her soft lips as they traveled downwards. It was really a shame she had to go.

The conversations never changed, not really. Sometimes she imagined it had been the same, thousands of years ago on Terra. The interaction was music played to the same rhythm, over and over again across long years the same faint pull on the strings of heart. Different faces. Different places. And yet, little ever changed. Goodbyes were sad, no matter for how long. But she couldn't stay. She couldn't falter. She had a BattleMech to pilot.

Stepping out into the cold, Zohra shivered beneath her thick wool lined leather jacket. Skandia was a pretty planet, but it was too cold for her tastes. She longed for the pulsing heat of a BattleMech cockpit. She had stayed too long. She could feel heavy threads of affection tugging at her heart. Two weeks had almost been too long. She was unsure her liver could survive much longer in the many taverns of Olaus.

Shouldering the battered duffle bag that contained her worldly possessions Zohra began to hum an ancient tune as she marched towards the spaceport.

Destiny and her BattleMech were waiting.

---

3034 June 28
New Skandia Geostationary Orbit
Black Eagle-class DropShip "Ankhanne"

"God, I can't believe that they didn't have a single Union class to spare..." Ulrik ushered under his breath with a disappointed look whilst making his way to the briefing room, as he passed by what must've been the dozenth exposed circuit in the hallways, the panels that once covered up the guts of the ship long since worn away or lost. The ones still in place weren't exactly in great condition either: rust had started to eat away at much of the ship's internal structures and almost no visible floor or wall surface was without a nasty scratch, bend or bulge. There was a constant buzzing sound in the air that Ulrik couldn't figure out the source of, though he was told by Chief Engineer Brynjar that it was due to the fans inside the life support system trying their best to keep up with the demand. He was told the ship had been sitting in "storage" on Vipaava, apparently damaged during the DCMS's conquest of the planet nearly 600 years ago, and repurposed into a stationary outpost and mech repair station. During those centuries that ship was inhabited more or less during the whole duration up until the end of the Third Succession War, when the DCMS finally abandoned the ship. That said, Ulrik couldn't tell which had done more damage to the ship: the garrison of Draconis troops living in it and wearing out the ship, trying to patch it up with a dwindling (or non-existent) supply of spare parts, or the decade it spent UNinhabited and left out in the wilderness. Whatever the answer was, it resulted in this FrankenShip of replacement parts and technologies that spanned nearly the entirety of human spacefaring history since the end of the Age of War. If Ulrik had any other options, he'd probably donate the ship to a museum, or make one out of it, but since this ride would have to be their home for the foreseeable future, he figured as long as they didn't leak air it was good enough for him.

Brynjar ensured him that the sorry state of affairs is due to their early departure: the to-do list for the engineers and MechTechs on the ship was long, and still had some core systems on it, but everything crucial had been fixed before they left atmosphere. He hoped that they would have time before the next assignment to fix up the ship and give it a proper cleaning: until then, this would have to do.

However, despite all her shortcomings, the Ankhanne held a few pleasant surprises for him: unlike the awfully cramped interiors of the Unions, the interior spaces here actually allowed two people to pass by each other in a corridor without having to either bump shoulders or shimmy along either wall. And it also had a conveniently large room that could be used for briefing more than half a dozen people at a time; this was the exact room that he finally stopped in front of, looking down at his tablet one more time before he finally entered.

With a quiet hiss the door slid open, and the new MechWarriors were greeted by the sight of their new commander's purposeful stride into the room, until he eventually stopped in front of a painfully dim screen on the wall and looked around the room with a stern gaze. Seated in what must've been the cheapest foldable plasteel chairs that the Republic could find were the ten new recruits, all having arrived on a Leopard not half an hour ago. Ulrik allowed himself one more quick look at all of their faces to memorize them for later, before he finally broke the silence that now stretched several long seconds.

"Let me be frank, I've always hated introductions, so let's keep the formalities brief. I'm Ulrik Mäkinen, and I'll be your new commanding officer for the foreseeable future. You may address me as "Sir" or "Commander", but I don't want to hear anyone addressing me by anything else until we've had a couple of beers together." His gruff voice echoed in the room as he stopped for a moment, letting the short pause give some more weight to his words before he sat down on the edge of the only table in the room, bringing his tablet up for a moment as she scrolled through some data about the crew. "I know most of you've been to boot camp, and some of you have even fought in real battles-" Ulrik made sure to put weight on the word "real", his eyes resting on Remy and Jaromir for a second as he made some mental notes before continuing. "-but this mercenary business will come as news to a bunch of you, so let me give you a quick explanation as to how this is going to go. The contacts in the Republic that set us up with this amazing ship will expect us to take care of some issues for them which they either deem too dangerous or too illegal for their regular forces. I know how that sounds; it's like being in the army, with all the restrictions and none of the benefits, but believe me, you'll be thankful you're not surrounded by a bunch of bright-eyed rookies that the Republic freshly recruited and who haven't tasted combat yet. Either way, we'll be working and living together as one unit from now on, so I expect everyone to play nice with each other. As long as we do our jobs, in a few years everyone will get a paycheck fat enough that you can grow old on some resort world near Terra if you want."

Setting the tablet down he crossed his arms, he'd examine each member in the room a bit more purposefully this time, trying to familiarize himself a bit more with how they each reacted to the meeting. Then, he let out a small sigh and rubbed his eyes for a moment before finally getting back up and walking around the table. Ulrik had a few more things to say, but after some deliberation he figured it was best he got to briefing the crew. He never was any good at pep talks, no need to make this more awkward than it was. "Alright, I think that's enough with the pleasantries. We're sailing out earlier than expected, so we'll have to do proper introductions later. I know it's not ideal to start our time together as a unit in a hurry, but my contacts in the Republic didn't take "no" for an answer on this one, so think of it as the price for getting started. If nobody has any objections, I'll get the mission briefing started so we can get done with this as quickly as possible."

The commander turned around and after tapping on the screen of his tablet a few times, the screen behind him buzzed and slightly increased in brightness before it began to display the image of small moon with a thin atmosphere orbiting a brightly colored gas giant. As he did so, the floor beneath them shook, and the unmistakable rattle of a ship docking filled the air around them. "Those were the docking clamps that of our JumpShip. We're joining up with a supply fleet headed back to Rasalhague, and they agreed to drop us off near Lamar. I know most of you aren't familiar with the system, and that's for a good reason." He took a step back to give the pilots a clear look at the screen before he pointed at the small moon. "This here is Lamar IV-B, the biggest moon of the gas giant Lamar IV. It was once inhabited, and had a Lyran presence for a few hundred years before it met the fate of many worlds during the First Succession War, and a nuclear strike rendered it uninhabitable. Ever since then it has been largely abandoned, but recently reports of unmarked vessels raiding nearby systems for supplies has surfaced, and the Republic intelligence office marked this planet as the likely base of operations of whatever group is behind said raids. Pirates, more than likely, but it does sound like the kind of mission after which we go "there wasn't supposed to be much resistance", so we can all enjoy a mess of a first mission together."

Tapping the tablet one more time, the screen switched display, and began to display topographic information of the planet, with a large red circle near the edge of one of the craters that littered the surface. "Ever since the nuclear strike, the atmosphere has been reduced to a level where rogue elements of the gas giant's asteroid belt keep peppering the surface. The highest form of native life is some lychen that managed to adapt, but expect to fight in hostile conditions. We have limited intel on the exact strength and number of enemy forces, but we do know that this highlighted area is most likely the location of the hostile base. Recon drone reported seeing a few shuttles entering atmosphere, but interference from the gas giant made it impossible to pinpoint where they landed. So, we'll have to improvise once we arrive." A few more taps, and the image of the moon faded away before being replaced by a few blurry images of vehicles and 'mechs that bore nothing but a reddish-white camoflague all over their chassis. "And these are our mystery forces. As you can tell, we're expecting light resistance: mostly APCs and IFVs, but we've spotted the same lance of Locusts and Cicadas twice now. Hopefully that's all they have, and we might be able to scare them out of Republic space without having to fire a single shot. I wouldn't count on it though: if they have the hardware to raid nearby systems, they could have heavier vehicles in storage. Let's hope it's nothing more than a band of pirates that got their hands on a K-F engine from some derelict JumpShip."

Ulrik was waiting for his pilots to memorize the info that he had given them, when the silence of the room was briefly interrupted by the loud blaring of klaxons. It only lasted a few seconds before subsiding, and he would shake his head as he looked down at his datapad to send the relevant information to the personal devices of each pilot. Then he placed the device down on the table and looked up at his pilots with the slightest hint of a smile. "That's our 5 minute warning for the jump, so let's wrap this up quickly. It sounds like whoever these people are, the Republic wants us to get rid of them ASAP, otherwise we'd have for a proper briefing. If anyone has any questions regarding the assignment, now's the time to ask them. Everything else can wait until after you've gotten yourself familiar with your new 'Mechs." With that he finally relaxed the muscles in his body that he didn't even know were tense during this quick briefing, and he waited on the input of his crew.

@Letter Bee@Psyker Landshark@Forsythe@AndyC@Smike@Abstract Proxy@QJT@Starlance

It wasn't the worst ship Fuka had ever been on, but it was close to it. The battered Buccaneer she had taken to get onto Skandia had been in slightly better condition than this "new" Black Eagle but it had also smelled much worse. She would take a few loose bolts over the stink of unwashed bunks any day.

Sitting in the rinky-dink chair with her chin in one hand and a cigarette between the fingers of the other, Fuka wondered what sort of outfit she had signed herself up for. She was a veteran sure, but her wartime service had been spent in the draconian embrace of Kurita's finest. Mercenaries had to be less strict than actual soldiers, right? There was a time and place for being a hardass but so many military types felt like they always had to wave their dicks around to get any respect.

Ulrik it seemed, was one of those prick officers. He walked in there with the tough guy act and talk of 'real battles", and Fuka immediately filed him away under "people to just nod and say yes to". Ah well, perhaps some of her comrades would turn out to be more interesting.

In the meantime she sat up straight in her seat and listened, committing the gig's details to memory. None of it seemed too difficult, a bunch of bandits in fourth-hand Locusts would go down easy to any lance with half-decent mechs. But judging by the state of the ship, half-decent was out of Rasalhague's budget.

She had just finished her smoke when the alarms blared, the samurai stubbing the butt out in a portable ashtray.

"Sir, what're the guidelines on prisoners? If it's just going to be us down there, are we going to have to split ourselves up to babysit captives?"

As much fun as it would have been to bully some asshole brigands, Fuka didn't like the idea of dedicating already limited resources to guarding them. But if that's what the boss said they were doing that's what they'd do.

Alvin Davion

Alvin glared at Fuka, before saying, "We are not going to indulge our lowest proclivities on prisoners, Ex-Mistress. I have my lines."

As for his impression of Ulrik, good, he wasn't a pathological Davion-hater; still, a potential enemy who was also his superior, but not someone who was out to get him; not that Alvin wanted to keep being ignored. Either way, he faced the Commander again, not asking anything right now and instead taking him at his word. If he wanted the group to get along, they will. If he genuinely liked the group to succeed, then why not try one's best to make it accurate?

Nevertheless, he remarked as another minute ran out, "The Republic wanting people cleared out yet not telling us who they are - Worst case is that they might be a black ops division of the other Inner Sphere nations."

As he waited to be dismissed, Alvin Davion then remarked, "Or I could just be a pessimist."

@Smike

Assembled in the briefing room or whatever it was, might as well have been a storage room before, was where Karel got the first good look at his comrades-to-be. A full two lances by the looks of it. A couple of experienced-looking ones, two baby-faced ones… and a biker? The first thing about this command that looked ‘middle of the road’ instead of screaming ‘cobbled together’. These people were clearly external like him, if the recruiter and doctor were any indication of the Rasalhagenaar locals. Surely not, though.

Surely yes, if the first few minutes of the commander’s presence were anything to go by. At Ulrik’s ‘Commander or Sir’ a sigh like an unspoken ’Fuck’s sake…’ escaped Karel’s mouth. There may have been a hint of silver lining in his words, but nonetheless the first impression of his new boss being that of one who needed people to know he was in charge did no favors to the mood. Karel briefly entertained the thought of reaching into his bag and placing two bottles on the table at Ulrik’s ‘couple beers with me’ bit, but sticking out like that on day one when Mäkinen could still offload him without any logistical issues was not worth the laugh. He let the talk of fat paychecks and retiring go in one ear and out the other, having heard a similar spiel at least twice before already.

Karel sat through the briefing slouched comfortably in his chair in silence, noting down as much as he could manage. Why bother remembering something if all you have to remember is where to find that information? Effectively a search-and-destroy against an inferior or equal hostile force, potentially assaulting enemy fortifications, no allied support. It could have been worse, at least they were not expected to protect some soft target, but he’d pass definitive judgment once he knew what equipment they’ve been given. When Ulrik opened the floor, Karel took a breath to say something but stopped, trying to unpack what the mop-headed one just said for a few seconds before electing to ignore it and move on. ”What’s scaring them off good for? They’ll just be back later and we’ll miss out on salvage.” Having seen financial issues fold a company first hand, that was the first thing that came to his mind. ”And since when are pirates granted any protections?” The thought of a forewarned enemy was not a pleasant one. He’d been fortunate enough to avoid the massacre at Wyatt, where the Eleventh Lyran Guards tore up the 25th Marik Militia as soon as they materialized at the jump point, though several of his classmates from the Allison MechWarrior Institute weren’t that lucky. ”Locusts and Cicadas you say. What are we working with and does it also predate myomer like this thing?” Karel gestured around himself to indicate the pile of ship. ”And what sort of travel time are we looking at?”

The Leopard which carried Hamazasp was typical of Rasalhague's present catalogue: old, musty, discourteous, but functional. The metal frame's rickety movement didn't ease him, but this would be far from the first or the most dangerous deadly experience he faced in his lifetime. He savored the thrill of being lurched upward, then forward. He quite relished this rarity.

Once the transport was well underway, he opened his backpack and parsed its contents. The fifteen books he brought were accounted for. As expected, a few straggler ants crawled across their spines: residue from his evening of sleep beside the queen. He contemplated cracking open a novel, but he didn't wish to accidentally crush an unsuspecting insect. On the other hand, he couldn't exactly unbuckle his seatbelt and freely roam the cabin. She wouldn't mind, would she? He sighed. Without adequate food or oxygen, their lives were forfeit anyways. He quietly mourned their loss, then pulled out a fresh copy of Dateline Destiny: Strange Tales But True by Adam Rasalhague, a book he'd picked up from a gift shop just before departure. He'd considered The Philosopher And The Space Traveler by General Yuri Gamato, but his new employer's cultural heirloom felt more appropriate. Of course, the slow reader he was, he'd barely finished the third chapter when he reached his destination.

The vessel was ancient, centuries older even than the original manuscripts of (the majority of) his novels. Braving a potential slew of long dormant diseases, he brushed his fingers against the wall's rusty frames as he strolled through them. Not much survives from yesteryear; what remains ought to be prized, no matter its condition. Perhaps he'd spend some time polishing its sides in periods of pause. Regardless, he needed to stake a bunk. He wandered his way to quarters, selected the bottommost bed, and set down his current read to claim it. An ant obliviously traversed the cover. That duty complete, he slung his pack over his shoulder and headed for the briefing.

The plasteel seat was unruly but serviceable. Hamazasp had employed worse, including (shudder gasp) regular plastic chairs. Still, he figured he should requisition a pillow for his 'Mech to maintain this posture on this material for hours if not days. He positioned himself near the room's rear if only so that his comrades could take the front and pay better attention. Alas, he miscalculated the edge lords and lone rangers lonelier individuals coveting the distant seats in the corner, crowding Sulser beyond comfort.

He studied his superior, then his colleagues. Lichen was good for natural dyes, especially since they required no urine mordant to fuse to cloth; he dabbled with it while experimenting on his farm. He hoped to obtain a sample, though he wouldn't leave his cockpit except under utmost necessity. Mäkinen's cynicism was unwarranted but tolerable. His peers, however... "Babysit captives," "Ex-Mistress," alongside the tone: not signs of proper integration. Hopefully team cohesion remained intact. He supposed he shouldn't overly rely on them; emotional compromise was a liability.

He waited for a second, then arose. "Black ops? A particularly tough Lance simply means higher quality loot upon survival, I reckon." Pessimism was best countered with optimism. "For either ourselves or Republic stock. I myself have a question, Sir Commander. I presume that the landscape is fairly flat, with nuclear bombings and all. Nonetheless, are there local terrain elements to denote?" He wasn't one for intense maneuvers, and he preferred to keep it that way. He implied but didn't outright state his curiosity about the mercenaries' cut of weapons and parts out of his strict sense of professionalism.

Fucking hell. A Black Eagle? Jaromir resisted the urge to let out a disgusted sigh as he boarded the DropShip. The last outfit he was with wasn't exactly flush with cash, but it hadn't been this bad. Unfortunately, Rasalhague had the only outfit willing to provide a BattleMech on signup at the moment, so he hadn't exactly been flush with options. Best to just bite the bullet and get all this done with. He found the briefing room, took a seat in the middle of the pack, and patiently waited for their marching orders.

The briefing didn't do anything to help Jaromir's misgivings, but it could still have been worse. He didn't like that the CO was a Feddie, mostly for his own safety, but the commander didn't seem to discriminate too much. Yet. Though he was curious as to what the man meant by "real" battle, looking at him and the more middle-aged pilot as he did so. Something to ask in private later, if they had the chance. The briefing didn't sound bad, but Jaromir had heard better odds before, only to get bogged down in an absolute shitstorm. Like the mission that had fucked over his old company in the first place and had him running all the way back here.

It was then that a few of his new squadmates began to speak up. So far? He wasn't that impressed with what he saw. The noble-looking Combine girl spoke sense, only for some prick to start going on about proclivities and...ex-mistress? Alright, so the two had history together. Kept boytoy? Nah. Too much resentment in him for that. Jaromir found himself nodding along with the next man to speak, piping in himself after the fact.

"I'm with him." He jerked his thumb in Karel's direction. "Pirates don't get protections, and no one would give a shit about a bunch of two-bit raiders. Wipe them out and salvage what we can, I say. Locusts and Cicadas ain't worth much, but anything's better than nothing. Anyways, Commander, what've we got for combined arms support? Tanks? Aircraft? Nothing?" Any backup was superior to no backup, and having a few easy targets on the field would serve as good meatshields for the actual heavy-hitters. Though he doubted they'd be so lucky. At this rate, the entire mech complement available to them would be nothing but half-junked Urbies.

---

If she was to be honest with herself, Katrina did not know what to expect of joining a merc band. It could have been a pirate crew pointed in the right direction. It could have been more about drinking beer together and occasionally shooting some stuff. It could have been a band that was about to go on a tour of the galaxy, showing it the real meaning of metal. She did not expect a military-esque style. What was the point of joining this rather than the military then? To do the same thing, only in more hazardous conditions and none of the logistical support. She had the distinct feeling she has been screwed.

As the piece of dry bisket that they were to call commander droned on, Kat was looking at the sketchy intel. Cicadas and Locusts. Both could do over a hundred kliks per hour, assuming they were well maintained. Bastards were not going to be easy to hit. At this point she thought that towing a small asteroid and dropping it at the pirate base was going to be the best solution. Of course, that would apparently be against some of her compatriots' morals. A merc with morals, hah! Where the hell did they find this kid, and did noone teach him the Ares conventions were repealed four succession wars ago? Not to mention they never covered pirates.

"I wouldn't count on the land being flat at all. Since the planet has been left to be rained upon by asteroids, it'll be closer to a moonscape, or perhaps Mars. Plenty of ridges and craters to get ambushed from behind. Also, if the atmosphere is as bad as it is being put, taking prisoners might not even be an option unless they just plain surrender when we show up. You get a crack in the cockpit and the radiation poisoning will be the least of your problems, you'll suffocate long before that. Speaking of, I can't exactly not notice that this ship is barely airtight. In what state of repair is the rest of the hardware? Because I'd rather enjoy asbestos cigarettes than breathe in any unweathered regolith." Kat frowned. She had half a mind to add 'And beers when, because I did not join a merc outfit to have my commander chekc if I folded my sheets.', but thought better of it - for now.

Remy had spent most of the briefing keeping quiet-- thanks in no small part to the fact that his head was pounding from a hangover that could bowl over most Assault 'Mechs. It wasn't the booze, the pills, or anything else that usually ran its way through his system that was the cause of his woes, but the lack thereof. In order to get the gig, he had to show up to the interview and the briefing in a state that at least had a passing resemblance of sobriety, and it put him in a foul mood.

Every morning for the past few weeks, he'd rolled out of the rack in the tenement housing unit he'd been crashing at, slurped down a plate of jiggly yellow ooze that Nan had assured him was eggs, and stumbled around until he remembered how to walk straight, then made his way to the hiring hall to see if there were any bites.

Eventually his combat record got him the attention of the 'Commander' here, and he'd found his way on board this rusted old bucket. They were small-timers, and chasing down bandits on some backwater rock didn't exactly set his world on fire, especially compared to what he was used to. Still, a job was a job, and getting the chance to strap back into a Battlemech and pull the triggers was all the fix he really needed.

The other mercs were asking the right questions-- well, most of them anyway. When the subject of throwing back a few brews came up, Remy finally cleared his throat. Partly to draw attention to himself, but mostly to choke back the bile from being miserably sober for this long.

"Hell, I'll be more than happy to drink the whole lot of ya under the table," he sneered, "soon as we get the job done and get our pay. Assuming, of course, any of ya can keep up."

He got a few sour faces in response for his display of swaggering bravado, but if he was going to be running with this crew for anything longer than a cup of coffee, he wanted them to know what he was about from the word go.

"Speakin' of the job," he turned his attention to the Commander, "what kinda contingency do we have in mind if things start going tits-up? Locusts and Cicadas aren't worth a damn in a straight fight, but they can be a helluva pain if they're spotting for fire support. I don't wanna find myself swingin' in the breeze if it turns out those little bug 'Mechs are calling shots for a Long Tom or an LRM boat."

---

Sitting attentively in the front of the makeshift briefing room, Zohra absorbed the briefing and rapid fire questions from her new comrades in arms with a carefully cultivated stoicism that she felt more than warranted given her present circumstances. She had few options without a BattleMech. Risks, even great ones, were now nothing more than necessaries.

Pirates were no great surprise. The FRR was in a precocious position. Pirates would no doubt seek to take advantage of the fledgling republic. The natural tendencies of these interstellar scoundrels would have to be checked. She could sympathize with those unwilling to harm surrendering pirates, but convention and the law was clear concerning the matter. Pirates were afforded none of the judicial protection offered soldiers and mercenaries operating within the scope of the law. To engage in piracy in all most all nations of the Inner Sphere meant forfeiting one's life if one were to be captured. The noose or a firing squad following a brief trial was what waited. All civilians knew this, all soldiers knew this, all mercenaries knew this, and assuredly all pirates knew this. It was why pirates, in her limited experience, fought with such blind fanaticism, victory or death was all that remained for the poor wretches.

Her new colleagues represented a diverse constellation, if appearance and accents were anything to go by. She was not unfamiliar with such company. Tempers were cool enough. Jibes were not so cutting so as to be truly offensive. Not yet at any rate. There would no doubt be tension when rounds and missiles started flying, but such was the way of things. She was pleased at the majority of questions, not that her opinion carried any particular weight, but she sensed an unanticipated current of professionalism coursing beneath the predictably crusty layer of mercenary bravado that was exhaled into the room.

"We should strike quickly and true," Zohra added with a smile and nod at the last speaker. He looked like the sort who might know how to play a guitar, a thought that pleased her greatly, wishful as such hopes might be. Even at a distance she could smell the alcohol emanating from the space he had occupied. Zohra concluded with great confidence that he was just the kind of mercenary that would polish off a case of the Hefeweizen brew that she had found the Steiners were so fond of drinking in one sitting. At least when the petty social generalsweren't busy sipping glasses of wine filled to brim with vintages far too expensive for her own much less refined palette.

"What pirates lack in endurance they often make up for in tenacity and a remarkable propensity for creative violence. We should not overstay our unexpected welcome or allow ourselves to be drawn into a lengthy battle."

Ulrik knew the moment he signed up for the position that there would be some things he'd have to get used to. He spent the better half of his life in the military, ingraining the wisdom and behavior of soldiers into his mind. He woke up 5 minutes before the clock every morning and habitually folded his sheets and tied his shoelaces. He brushed his teeth on the toilet and finished breakfast in minutes, like it was expected from all the recruited militia that he used to serve with in the infantry. Even as conditions got better during his years as a MechWarrior, he could never shake off the habits that the drill sergeants and officers so meticulously instilled in them over the years.

Being a mercenary was new to him, and so was the lax rules and schedules that this lifestyle afforded to them. By no means did he mean to be a nuisance for the crew, but old habits die hard, and some were immortalized in his brain already. Still, it came as a pleasant surprise to hear all the questions that he was asked by his new crew, the fears of having to wait in silence quickly dashed away by a barrage of questions. Some, he knew the answers to, whilst for some he was in the ark just like his new pilots.

As the klaxons blared for the second and third time during the questions, he habitually grabbed onto the edge of the desk with one hand and looked down at the timer on the tablet he was holding in his other. Then, just like clockwork, the klaxons blared one more time, and the still unfamiliar voice of the ship’s captain began to speak. “Attention all crew, this is your 10 second warning. Sit down or grab something, we’re going into FTL in 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Jump.”

For a moment the buzzing of the oxygen recyclers came to a halt, and the words of the captain hung in the air like a silent whisper. It was the longest second in the history of seconds, stretched into an eternity as fingertips buzzed with the excited atoms as the K-F field contorted space and time around the ship. For the next 12 seconds the ship’s rattling stopped as it was suspended in a slushy of agitated medium that kept them safe from the horrors of a drive failure, and by the time everyone got used to the feeling of mild nausea and deep-seated joint ache that came with the jump, the ship already finished it’s interstellar transit, and reality came crashing down on them like a wave.

All the buzzing and rattling of the ship came back and Ulrik took a deep breath as he afforded to himself a small smile. “Well, that wasn’t so bad. The perks of visiting a neighboring system.” With that he picked up the tablet once more and used it to quickly start displaying a few new images on the screen behind himself. He didn’t have much more to show, but his pilots were smart, and he could afford to let them fill in the blanks. “Honestly, all great questions, and I can even answer some of them. Let’s start with transit time: the Ankhanne can theoretically do a 3G burn, but in it’s current state we’re glad we can manage a comfortable 1G of acceleration. Now that the jump is over, we’re looking at a 16 hour journey to Lamar IV. Should be enough time for everyone to get familiarized with your mechs, do a few runs in the sims and get some shut-eye before we make our landfall. We'll have plenty of time on the way back as well; the next JumpShip arrives in 5 days to pick us up.”

He would turn around and focus on the display for a moment as he brought forward one of the images about the AO. “Nuclear war leaves nasty wounds, but it’s the visitors from the asteroid belt that pose the most danger to the moon.” He zoomed out a little on the image, revealing the earlier picture to be on the edge of a massive crater that seemed to cover a good bit of the planet’s visible surface. “Even though we caused nuclear winter, this crater is what did Lamar in, a few million years ago, stripping it of most atmosphere. Suffice to say, nuking didn’t help, but now it’s also extremely cold. As for the exact details…” He looked up for a moment, his eyes jumping between Katrina and Hamazasp, as if trying to recall their exact questions. "The atmospheric pressure is about 0.4 terran standard; not good, not bad. The heatsinks won’t be happy, but it should help somewhat that the average surface temperature is a balmy -13 C°. I wouldn’t worry too much about overheating, but make sure to double check your cockpit seals before leaving the mechbay. We’ll be landing on the eastern rim of the crater, so expect relatively featureless, steep terrain: we’ll have to contend with snow and ice as we traverse the landscape.”

“As for the Opfor..” After a few taps, he brought up a blurry, heavily zoomed in image from the recon drone that showed what appeared to be several hundred lights in a tight cluster on the surface near the peak of the crater’s rim, and a few concrete buildings that proved quite a challenge to distinguish from the terrain. “That’s the best I can do. We can expect much of the facility to be underground, but what else they might have we just can’t know for sure. If they are pirates, the contract didn’t specify any bounty per head we bring in, so I reckon we’ll do the best we can whilst minimizing our exposure to enemy fire. If they surrender, great, we’ll take their supplies and leave them for the next JumpShip. If they bring out some dusty RetroTech Mechs from the First Succession War, we were acting in self-defense. Rules of Engagement are as simple as that: I don’t want to see anyone holding back on the trigger and getting shot because of their consciousness. Just be mindful: if you can take a target safely, do it, otherwise we’re happy taking the Republic’s payment with or without having to fire a single shot. But I wouldn’t bet on that, Pirates have a habit of not surrendering.” He fell silent afterwards, watching the faces of his pilots react. He cared little for pirates, but deep down he wasn’t so sure that the mission would go as simple as shooting at pirates in a simulator.

Finally he turned his attention towards Remy, Zohra and Jaromir, letting out a small hum as he scrolled through his tablet, eventually putting it down. “Our intel is spotty at best, so the plan is to be read as soon as we hit the ground to leave the DropShip, we’ve got some Large Lasers to keep us covered, but we need to make a bridgehead as quick as we can. Once we get preliminary topographic scans from orbit we’ll come up with a more detailed plan. As for a contingency, let’s hope we don’t get to that. There’s little terrain to hide behind, so if someone starts to pepper us with LRMs, we’ll have to take them out as quickly as we can. And if we land and we pick up assault mechs on the sensors, we’re heading straight back towards the jump point.” Ulrik let the crew examine the display and the data he sent to all their datapads for a little while longer before he turned off the screen and clapped his hands. “Alright, I think it’s about time I answered the last question I know you all have: what we have available. I can tell you we don’t have any air support, but I managed to strike a deal that keeps us away from Scorpions. It’s a… questionable selection, but I have faith in your abilities to make it work.” With that he beckoned for the pilots to follow him, and he waited for everyone to get out of their seats before he turned the lights off in the briefing room and led them down the decrepit hallways of the ship to the Mech Bay.

Ankhanne, Mech Bay

“And I’m telling you, that Firestarter won’t go anywhere until you’ve made sure there's no more leakages in the cooling system! I don't care if you need to take the whole thing apart, make sure it works like new, or you can be the one to give it a test ride!” The deep, commanding voice of Chief Mech Technician Elena reverberated through the halls even before they turned into the large mech bay. The expansive room was filled with activity as everyone made their way onto the ‘shop floor: flickering lights from arc welders painted the dull room into a vibrant shade of blue for moments at a time, and the sound of drills and mechanical saws filled the air with a constant hum and buzz. The cranes and walkways were just as ancient as the rest of the ship, and standards have come a long way since the Black Eagle was first produced: the bays were of a rickety design and one could only wonder what parts of the electrical or hydraulic system had failed over the years. Standing in the middle of it all was Chief MechTech Elena, a woman just as large as the burden of maintaining the collection of museum pieces that dotted the bays on either side. She was well-built and carried a few extra pounds on herself, but more so than anything she towered over the rest of the technicians by at least a foot. At least 7 feet tall, as soon as she spotted the pilots she hurried over to them with an angry expression on his face. “Commander, I’m glad you’re here! These technicians that the Republic lent us are so… incompetent! We will need more time to get all the ‘Mechs pathed up and ready for combat, more time than we have.” Her voice carried a heavy slavic accent, and it was full of concern. As she looked over the crew she made the impression of someone who doubted whether or not the pilots would survive their first deployment, regardless of their skills. “These mechs are ancient… Did you know the 2 Mongooses served in the First Succession Wars? And whatever dump they managed to get our Javelin out of, I’m sure I could build a better mech with the parts at hand…” She let out a frustrated groan, ready to begin her next rant, but Ulrik gave her a look that quickly made her pipe down and accept that there was nothing to be achieved by complaining.

Indeed, she wasn’t wrong: all the mechs seemed like they’ve seen better days. Armor plates were still missing from almost all of them and getting bolted on them even as they spoke, actuators getting replaced in arms and legs and the guts of the Firestarter were still down on the shop floor as what appeared like an army of MechTechs worked on the various internal components. The paint of them was a mishmash of Lyran and Draconis camo patterns from the past several hundred years, but a few of them had completely unique paint schemes that seemed to make no sense: like the aftermath of pirate salvage. And who knows, maybe they were. The stark exceptions to this rule were the Centurion standing at the far left corner of the bay, and the freshly painted Raven and Locust. These two light mechs carried the light blue and red color schemes of the Free Rasalhague Republic, painted with various runic patterns from the ancient days of Terra’s nordic cultures. Easy on the eyes and hiding formidable mechs on their own, they represented a woefully small (both physically and percentage wise) part of the selection available to them.

“Here they are, in all their glory, the best mechs the Republic could spare for us. I’d say we got a bargain, the DCMS even threw in an old Dragon they weren’t using anymore.” Ulrik explained, trying his best to make a joke as he began to walk down the aisle in the middle, passing by groups of technicians as they worked on the mechs. “I’ve read all your bios, and I have a rough idea what mechs you are all familiar with, however, I saw it prudent to let you decide amongst yourselves who gets what. We’re a group now, almost a family, so it’s best that I don’t step on your toes.” He stopped in his steps, like someone who had forgotten something, and then he turned towards Karissa with a softened expression on his face. “Right, almost forgot that you knew your way around these mechs as well. I’ll let you run free with the other techs if you’re inclined to get your hands greasy: if you can get the cooling system of the Firestarter working before we make landfall, I won’t check if you folded your sheets. For a week.” Ulrik let out a small laugh, finding his own dad joke quite funny before she shook his head. “I’m kidding, I’m too old to check each of your bunks every morning. But I’ll drink to that once we get back from the mission.”

He then turned to the rest of the crew and gave them a small nod as he beckoned around at the mechs with his hands. “Now, everyone, pick your rides. The Centurion is my personal souvenir from House Kurita, but everything else is yours. Ask Elena if you have any technical questions, otherwise the MechTechs should be able to help set you up with your mechs.”

---

@Letter Bee@Psyker Landshark@Forsythe@AndyC@Smike@Abstract Proxy@QJT@Starlance

"You can keep your lines Slave, and I'll keep from getting captured."

She said it with a smile, easily reverting to the casual cruelty she had been taught to treat all captives with. Alvin was understandably touchy about the lives of future prisoners, but Fuka understandably didn't care what he thought. If he was going to get hung up on what happened to a bunch of pirates then that was his problem. Most of the troop seemed to agree, a collective eye roll spreading through the crowd.

"That's the point of being an outlaw. You're outside the protection of the law.

She punctuated the statement with a knowing wink toward Alvin. She had already sniffed out his weak point like a wolf, and now the rest of the pack had picked up on it. Maybe he'd learn to run with them, maybe he'd get too annoying for them and then be torn to shreds. It'd be fun to see either way!

The tremendous clattering of the jump put an end to Fuka's needling, the samurai focusing on gripping the table with her robotic hand so as to keep from breaking her nose on the surface. She was never going to enjoy FTL but she was more or less used to it now, enough to keep from hurling after each hop anyway.

Fuka had never been particularly religious, but she sent out a silent prayer of thanks as Ulrik clarified some of the questions. He might have been kind of an ass, but he at least seemed like he knew how to run an operation. She noted the terrain and atmosphere, aware of but not particularly worried about them. Snow and ice were hardly ideal to fight in, but at least there weren't any volcanoes or anything crazy.

More importantly, they wouldn't waste time with prisoners. If they weren't getting paid to bring in survivors Fuka was happy to ditch or destroy them.

"It all sounds good to me!" She said brightly, already edging for the door. "Let's go see what we got."

Maybe there'd be a Hunchback, that'd be handy enough.

Ankhanne, Mech Bay

Dragon dragon dragon d r a g o n.

Fuka's thoughts drowned out the complaints of the giant mechanic woman and only just allowed the CO's words to filter in. The specifics were fuzzy but she got the gist: "Don't touch the Centurion but everything else is fair game, ergo Fuka you need to run over to the Dragon as fast as your legs can carry you."

She followed Imaginary Ulrik's orders to the letter, crossing the bay at a speed that was probably pretty unsafe considering the amount of power tools and high-heat welding that was going on around her. They had loved to make the cadets run at Sun Zhang, and it had been one of the few non-combat activities she had excelled at. Fuka was a cheetah when given proper motivation, and a heavy mech was more than proper.

Skidding to a stop in front of the Dragon Fuka giggled like a schoolgirl, only just managing to resist the urge to clap her hands in excitement. Someone, probably the original DC pilot, had applied a sensible tiger-stripe style of jungle camo to the behemoth, a choice that Fuka found very boring indeed. What was the point of having normal camouflage if it only worked in one environment?

At least the salvagers who had gotten to it had edited the insignia. The Kuritan Dragon on the mech's left shoulder had been painted over and replaced with a snarling tiger clutching a dismembered arm in its jaws. Judging by the scimitar the bloody hand was limply grasping at, someone really hated the Capellans.

Fuka didn't care about the politics, only that it looked cool as hell. She'd change the tiger's eyes to match her own, maybe give it a metal paw, and then it'd be perfect.

"Found mine!"

”And naturally being defeated is outlawed in squintland. Fucking barbarian.” Karel growled at Fuka’s ‘outlaw’ comment. But stiff demeanor aside, at least the boss knew how to run a briefing. After having to cook out of water during a significant number of Sapphire Swords sorties, this was a welcome change. Maybe he’d come around yet. As the presumed captain gave the ten-second warning, Karel looked around for something resembling a stable handhold. Resigned to his fate, he sat down on the floor where he found a rust-free patch and gripped his chair, not wanting to risk the rickety thing folding underneath him if he leaned the wrong way after the jump. The jump apparently quelled any will to argue if there was any, leaving them headed to the main event of the night.

Ankhanne, Mech Bay

The Combine girl immediately made a beeline for the only heavyweight in the racks. Made sense in a way, if she was familiar with the machine, more power to her. It would make everyone’s life easier. ”Look at her go. Add some fried chicken on top and she’ll outpace the ship.” He said quietly to the nearest person when Fuka took off, covering an impressive distance in a few seconds. Following her path, his eyes fell upon the Mech bays and their mis-matched occupants.

”Bože, co jsem komu udělal že mě takhle trestáš kurva?”

The ‘Mechs were… about what could be expected given the DropShip. That Centurion was a prime cand- of fucking course, nevermind. Trebuchet 7K. Sniper, no. Hermes II 4K. Walking oven, no. Javelin 10N. Alright loadout and jump jets, but the armor may as well have not been there, no. Panther 9R… Kind of a sniper, but with decent armor and able to keep itself cool… No, that minimum range on the PPC would spell his doom sooner than later. He passed the Urbanmech without acknowledging its existence at all. The Raven was a sweet deal, but he didn’t like the likelihood of the controls being written in that spilled tea leaves script the Capellans used. The Mongoose was definitely an ancient design, but despite being Drac-made, it was built for the SLDF - back in the days of glorious standardization - and therefore most likely in an actual language. And with a loadout he liked and blistering top speed of over 120 kilometers per hour - assuming these particular ones could reach it without rattling themselves apart - that would do it for a start. Karel climbed up to the closer Mongoose’s entry hatch and dropped down inside. He clambered back out faster than he went in, driven out by the smell of what he guessed was dead rodents and mold that permeated the cockpit and made his way over to the second Mongoose before anyone had time to claim it. ”Spare parts.” Were his only words as he passed an AsTech visibly confused by his behavior, pointing at the abandoned BattleMech.

Standing in front of the other, hopefully nasally inoffensive antique, parts of the armor were still stripped to allow the technicians easier access. The parts that weren’t were clearly intended to have some kind of green-black-sand three-tone woodland camouflage pattern, except it had a few problems. Chiefly among them that the person who applied it had no clue what the hell they were doing and they also clearly grabbed a bucket of paint that said ‘desert sand’ instead of ‘sand’ and thought “Good enough.”, resulting in a Jackson Pollock-esque mess of olive and black colors interspersed with pink splotches.
“Soooo? What do you think?” An oddly chipper MechTech appeared by his side.
“It’s the BattleMech equivalent of a crackhead.”
The techie nodded her head energetically in agreement. “Good luck, merc.”
Making his way inside, he took some time to examine the dashboard, ergonomics of the most commonly used controls he could identify at a glance, field of view and… a cup holder? He was staring at a loop of wire welded to the dashboard, with a piece of scrap metal similarly attached underneath it. What else could that have been?

Alvin Davion

Alvin blinked, sighed in acknowledgement, and promptly ignored everything Fuka had to say; for the very first time in forever, he found out that some people weren't worth his words. Now, they were going to a hangar and select BattleMechs?

Ankhanne, Mech Bay

When he saw the Hermes-II, Alvin fell, well, not in love, but definitely fond of the Medium Mech. So he went over it right away and spoke, "Can I be allowed to pilot the Hermes-II? I promise to treat it with all the respect and affection such a great mech deserves."

He was most proficient in piloting Medium Mechs; so there was that, and quite frankly, this BattleMech was the best one for someone who was average in everything. With this, he believed he can even beat Fuka, but he'll keep that a secret from her until they have simulator access. If anything, he knew this, that he could make a reliable scout, even though he wasn't sure the flamer would work in the oxygen-thin atmosphere.

Either way, if he was permitted to go near the Hermes-II, Alvin would eagerly get on the elevator platform so he can enter the cockpit, all the while musing on what Ulrik had said. Is that guy really going to accept us as family?

The young man felt a glimmer of hope at that. He had learned that Fuka wasn't worth his time; she'd be outraged anyway if he did something like save her life or perform better than her in the mission, so he'd probably let himself naturally do that, but not actively seek it out. He was not a glory hound like other Federated Suns members or Draconis Combine folk, after all.

If he had something to prove... Actions spoke louder.

"Well, well," Remy said as he strolled down the gantry onto the floor of the 'Mech bay, eyeing the machinery up for grabs, "let's go for a walk, babe, and see what we can see."

Around his neck hung an unusual piece of 'jewelry,' a hand-sized piece of curved metal with few buttons and triggers along the top half. It was the weapons control stick for a Battlemech, specifically a Hunchback HBK-4G. Remy pulled off the necklace and held the joystick in his left hand, his arm stretched out in front of him like a divining rod.

Long ago, Remy had piloted a Hunchback, which he'd named 'Murder One.' It'd been shot out from under him, but he had pried the control stick out from the remains of the cockpit as a memento. Since then, he'd developed a bit of a superstition about it, having it installed in every 'Mech he'd piloted since then. He'd heard Comstar novices and some of the more superstitious 'Mech techs talk about 'machine spirits' and the almost supernatural bond between a Mechwarrior and his machine, and at some point, that talk had left a mark. As long as he kept that stick installed into whatever 'Mech he drove, 'Murder One' was still up and running.

The pickings on the Ankhanne weren't much to his liking. Apart from the commander's Centurion and the Drac chick's Dragon-- Remy never could understand why the Combine loved that 'Mech so damn much-- most of the 'Mechs on offer were lights. 'Murder One' rarely ever settled for anything less than 50 tons, having been a Thunderbolt, a Warhammer, and even a Stalker in previous lives. And despite their speed and agility, most light 'Mechs were too fragile; facing much faster Locusts suddenly sounded a bit more dangerous than he'd been expecting. A few well-placed laser hits would put most of these machines in jeopardy.

Still, beggars couldn't be choosers, and 'Murder One' understood that. As Remy held out the old control stick, his steps drifted this way and that between the 'Mechs.

"How's about we play with some of the Cappies' fancy new toys?" he said as he approached the Raven. While he'd never actually gone up against one in combat yet, he'd heard stories from the Fourth War about the Capellan Confederation's new light. The 'standard' Raven became instantly famous for its electronic warfare suite, but this was one of the FedCom's refits, sporting a Large Laser instead. For a mission like this, it'd be a perfect light 'Mech hunter.

He held Murder One's firing stick out, his finger on the trigger...but the trigger didn't pull.

"Yeah, you're right," he nodded. It was shiny and new, but a little too shiny and new. "Looks real nice, but she's got no experience. Gotta find one that's been around the block and knows what she's doin'."

Turning from the Raven, he passed the squat frame of an Urbanmech and chuckled. Maybe if they were in a defensive fight in a city where he could set up in an ambush position, sure. But for a running fight against some of the fastest 'Mechs in the Inner Sphere, he couldn't think of a worse pick.

"How's about we do some sniping?" he asked out loud as the walked toward the Panther. When he'd gone up against the DCMS as part of the Roughriders, he'd always been surprised at how much trouble Panthers could be. Anything sporting a Particle Projector Cannon had the potential to mangle limbs, gouge out armor, even pop heads, and while the Panther wasn't as nimble as the Jenners they were usually paired with, they could still jump around enough to be a pain in the ass.

Remy held out the firing stick again...and again, the trigger didn't pull.

"Yeah, never been too big on precision," he admitted. "Besides, we like that personal touch. Wanna get up nice and close."

He turned away from the Panther, and his eyebrow raised at the pair of Mongooses. They were good and fast, and packed a hell of a punch for something so light. On the other hand, they were basically an extinct 'Mech-- there weren't any factories left that made the Mongoose or even made parts for it. Which meant that whoever piloted one of those two would almost definitely be cannibalizing the other for repairs. And it looked like the Free Worlder with the beard had picked one. Remy wasn't about to let Murder One get picked apart for scrap.

"Oh, now there's a thought," he said as he saw the Javelin. "Fast enough to close distance, jump jets to go where she needs, and missiles that let her punch above her weight class. I think...yeah, I think we may..."

Remy held out Murder One's fire control stick...

"....have....."

He put his finger on the trigger....

"....a winner...."

....and he found himself turning away at the last second, the control stick now facing the Firestarter.

"Ohhh, oh my oh my..." Remy said as a devilish grin nearly split his face in two.

It was meant for anti-infantry work instead of hunting 'Mechs, but the Firestarter was for his money one of the best lights the Inner Sphere had to offer. Fast enough to keep up with most other Lights, jump jets to make it good and nimble, a pair of Medium Lasers to slag 'Mech armor and Machine Guns to wreak havoc on internal structure with a constant spray of lead. And most famous of all, those four Purity L-series Flamers, which could incinerate infantry and lightly armored vehicles, clear huge swaths of forest and jungle terrain, and play hell on a 'Mech's heat management.

It was 35 tons of pure mayhem.

And for Overkill, it was perfect.

"So whaddya say, babe?" Remy grinned as he held out the firing stick of Murder One. "This our new ride or what?"

One of the AsTechs approached him with a concerned look. "Hey, ah, just so you know? The cooling system on this 'Mech is still on the fritz. There's a good chance you might fry yourself if you--"

"Ah, hell, kid," he sneered. "It's like they say, some like it hot."

Remy aimed the firing stick at the Firestarter's cockpit....and pulled the trigger.