The FTL notification moderately concerned Hamazasp. His current accommodation didn't appear suitable for major motions in any direction. He must find an adequate position in seconds. He stood up and passed to a bolted ledge on the wall. Gripping it, he placed one foot in front to handle vertical momentum, then planted the other sideways for horizontal changes. He took an unnecessary deep breath. He'd merely been used to commercial passenger flights on ships whose age was counted in decades, not centuries.

He rode the jump as on a surfboard. Quite fitting, considering the fluid around him. As the nausea started to seize him, he glanced at the plasteel chair. Perhaps that would have sufficed, but he was grateful for his present stance. He despised surprises; they afforded him no chance to think. Regardless, the vessel exited hyperdrive, leaving him no worse for wear. He remained standing as his terrain question was answered. As soon as Ulrik sent data to his datapad, Hamazasp focused almost exclusively upon it, mildly acknowledging but largely ignoring his colleagues' rash banter. Collecting his backpack from the floor, he was the final rookie to evacuate, if only to squeeze in a few moments of study before another task awaited him.

Ankhanne, Mech Bay

His first motion was to pay the technicians homage. He approached the Slavic giantess and briefly bowed. "I am Hamazasp Sulser. I wished to commend you for your service. I'll attempt to maintain my battlemech and keep it as unscathed as the situation allows. If anything else assuages your workload, please inform me. I look forward to future cooperation, Elena." With a salute, he resumed his duties. He intended to uphold that promise, not for special preference and benefits. Lesser pilots might even have pursued romantic interests. No, though Elena was physically massive for a human, everything looked puny and minuscule from a cockpit. MechTechs often bore the brunt of the social totem pole. If his ten comrades wouldn't acknowledge her, then his respect would be tenfold.

His fellow mercenaries were in such a rush to the cornucopia's largest and flashiest. The heavy and a medium were both claimed, the single remainder outside the light class, singular beyond the 35 ton Panther, doubtless shortly to follow. Let the warriors have their fun; the big and bulky didn't interest him. He wasn't the best candidate for the titans, anyways, having sparingly little relative experience. No, he preferred something small and manageable which wouldn't punish him for his inaccuracy or his inability to maneuver. His favorite would go fast yet turn on a dime. In line with his vow to Elena, his choice would be free of pockmarks when the fight concluded, absent of signs of combat as it wouldn't be struck at all! And for that, his gaze shifted towards the left corner at the Locust. He marched off accordingly.

Pleased by its smooth feel, he brushed his hand against the Locust's clean paint. He hailed the technician beside him. "Halloo! Of what discrepancies should I be aware prior to mounting?"

She shook her head. "None, I suppose," she reported, "but I didn't bother to check much. I was helping Aaron fix that Urbanmech."

A futile endeavor, Sulser figured. Nobody wanted to operate the quintessential hybrid of powerlessness and clunkiness. Nonetheless, he scaled the ladder. "Have you checked it for airtightness yet?"

"Oh shoot, I forgot!" she despaired, fearful of her boss's wrath.

"Not to worry! If you don't mind fetching me a blower and a pressure gauge, I'd appreciate it!" Hamazasp popped open the hatch and situated himself. He noticed a plastic filament above the touchscreen, which he'd never encountered in a vehicle of this caliber. He hesitated to tear it off, and instead booted it up to be bombarded with a flurry of Swedish, of which he understood mere bits and pieces. "Logga in" and "diagnostik" were easy, but "kulspruta" and "kasta" presented more challenge. Still, it didn't require a detective to see the four-digit number starting in "303" to determine the treasure across which he'd stumbled.

He needed to protect his newfound gain. He lightly pinched his chin, then met with epiphany. Recalling exposure to the broader environment, he loudly announced, "Yuck! There's a dead sparrow in here!" and then calmly closed his door. Rats didn't nest up that far up, and birds too large couldn't fit in. The perfect fabrication.

His mechanic rushed to his aid with the requested materials. "Quiet in there! Elena's gonna come down on me like a hurricane!" she hissed.

"Climb inside," Hamazasp motioned. He nodded once she was safely aboard. "Apologies; I meant no collateral damage. Let's hook this up, shall we?"

They departed the biped together and initiated the experiment. The instrument's barometric readings changed dramatically; Rasalhague (or whomever they bought this from) made an excellent product. Hamazasp high fived his acquaintance, and the two dismantled the configuration. "What do they call you, cadet?"

"Sigrid Lundqvist," she replied.

"Well, madam," Hamazasp commented. "I hope for further success with you!"

She smiled. "Alright, I'm off to assist elsewhere."

He bade her farewell. "Take care!" He reclaimed his seat and unslung his sack. The monitor greeted him with "Namn." He reflected on his infinite options. He recalled his cheese industry career, to poor Clara. Remarkably smart for a bovine, she could tell her fate the day Sulser gave it to her. Every cow he slaughtered in the twilight of his dairy business turned into a good steak dinner except for her. Her, a queen among cattle, he buried. His eyes got misty. It was right that he honor her memory. He punched in the letters: "Ayrshire," her breed.

Next item. He identified a proper nook, an edge of the dashboard's rim, and he began to cram it with the plethora of novels he'd brought along. Some were the last copies he knew in existence. Maybe it was reckless to trudge them into battle. Oh well. He sighed after the assortment was formatted by author name, then pulled out Weakness: A Ternary Star Adventure. He'd ensure eight hours of sleep later, but presently he'd get comfortable in his prize.

The briefing was satisfactory enough. If nothing else, it confirmed that his new commander at least probably knew what he was doing. Not was ever certain until one stepped off the battlefield, but as it stood? Jaromir gave it decent enough odds that Makinen knew his shit. He didn't like the lack of information at hand about pirates of all things, but the commander had a point that they'd get better scans once they were in orbit.

The byplay between the younger guy and the Combine girl flared up again, and Jaromir managed to only restrain himself to a brief snort as they left the briefing room. That definitely wasn't going to create problems later. Not at all. Ordinarily, he'd say interpersonal issues were the boss's problem to solve, but he suddenly had his doubts that either of them would be able to keep that shit professional in the field.

”Look at her go. Add some fried chicken on top and she’ll outpace the ship.” The man next to Jaromir murmured to him, and he responded with a brief chortle.

"Better her than me. Much as I'd like a heavy, don't like the armament. Combine girl wants to be a walking stereotype, more power to her." With that said, he separated from the herd just as they all dispersed, perusing the available BattleMechs like everyone else. The Centurion would've been his second choice, but of course the one good one of the bunch was already taken. Past that...everything else was a series of tradeoffs. Most of the light mechs were pretty much out of the question for his tastes. Speed was no substitute for a few extra tons of armor, and the lights were by and large made of paper. The Urbanmech was just asking to die against other light mechs outside of an urban environment. The Panther was probably the most acceptable one out of the bunch, but he still had other options.

There really was only one choice for him among the mediums. It sure as shit wasn't the Hermes II-4K. That thing ran far too hot for his liking. A single extra heat sink wasn't going to offset shit when the mech's only armament was two large lasers. No, that left the Trebuchet-7K. He'd heard whispers of the Dracs making a direct fire variant of the old Trenchbucket, and honestly? He was alright with what he saw. Seven and a half tons of armor on a medium wasn't ideal, but the Hermes II only had as much too. A PPC and an autocannon, though? Oh, he was more than fine with that. Let the others rush into close range and draw fire. He'd snipe with precision from the rear and be perfectly happy with it.

Best of all, no one else seemed to be claiming the Treb. So with a hint of a grin on his lips, Jaromir strode up towards the cockpit, nodding at the tech working on it.

"Fancy the Trenchbucket, boss?" The MechTech nodded back.

"Depends." Jaromir looked over the Draconis Combine camo paintjob and insignia plastered all over it. "You get all the monitoring devices out of the obvious test run prototype the Dracs just so happened to leave behind?"

"Six and counting so far." The tech replied without missing a beat. "Want me to worry about that first, or the paintjob?"

"Eh, let the Dracs have a little fun. Just sand the insignia off. Their camo ain't bad, but I'm drawing the line at the dragon."

"You got it. Need anything else, ask for Jimmy."

With that out of the way, Jaromir slid into the cockpit, starting to familiarize himself with the layout. He'd largely piloted mediums and a heavy or two in the past, so acclimating to how it handled in the sims shouldn't be too hard. As much as he missed being behind the controls of a Warhammer, he'd work with what he had for the moment. It was time to get to work getting ready to get to work.

---

As the jump signal chimed in, Katrina remained seated. She has been through more than enough jumps to know her stomach could take it, or to get used to it long before now. The other issue, well... If the hsip could only do a 1G burn in the direction it was intended to transfer loads through, she figured it would either be a smooth jump, or explosive decompression. Once the jump passed, she observed the wounds on the planet and the location of the enemy base. "Underground, you say? Would be a real shame if someone closed all but one entrance and pointed a flamer into the last one." she snorted. The RoEs seemed straightforward enough to her: Kill anything trying to kill you, ask questions... maybe.

Finally it was time to rip off the Band-Aid and go visit the 'Mech bay. The fact that, even as they approached, the chief technician could be heard loudly announcing some for the mechs were for all intents and purposes nonfunctional, was not very encouraging. One quick glance over the contents of the bay made the corrners of her mouth droop. The only thing equipped with her beloved LRMs was the Draconian heavy, which she would not fucking get near if she could help it. While it could get to a decent speed, she would vastly preffer something heavier on missiles and with no AC. Of course, it was too much to hope for a Catapult. The regulars probably snapped those up quickly, if the republic had any at all.

At least the chief seemed to insist on some competence among the crew. It wouldn't help them much in the present mission, but perhaps she could strike a deal and pass on some of her wisdom and experience from her own days in such a position. My knowledge is a bit dated, but then again, so are these 'Mechs. I might even be able to teach her a thing or two about these things. she nodded to herself with a smile. Smile which quickly faded as the more able-bodied of the crew at times sprinted towards some of the 'mechs to claim them. She shot a nervous glance towards the trash can as she walked along the bays to make her pick, made at ease with the fact that there seemed to be more 'Mechs then pilots available, so that it was certain there would be an alternative left. She briefly thought of challenging the Draconis girl to rock, paper, scissors for the Dragon only for the heck of it, but the thought vanished as she walked past the Wasp.

It was the 'Mech that the Valkyrie she used to drive replaced. Far be it from being similar, having a machine gun instead of an LRM. She would rather carry a few RPGs in the cockpit and fire those hanging upside down from the hatch, go all the good an MG would do against anything that was not infantry or light vehicles. Still, could be worse. It could have been the stock variant with the pathetic SRM-2. The medium laser she was plenty familiar with. It was not a bad choice, but she did have a look up and down the line to see what remained available. The javelin was a no-go, unless she could trade Nakano for the LRM launcher. Something to talk about later. The Panther had a loadout she was wholly unfamiliar with, having last fired a PPC in basic training. Her eye fell on the FedSun refit of the Raven. The large laser was very tempting, however the absence of jump jets made Kat question if she was good enough of a pilot to get it in place where she could put it to use. A well-times pang of stabbing pain in her calf made her decide on a resounding 'No', and she climbed up into the Wasp.

Settling into the seat and blowing dust from the controls, she gave the cockpit a look over, a frown settling on her face. "Hey! I have a wad of duct tape holding my control panel together. Anyone landed on a museum artefact that is somehow worse off that is not an Urbanmech?" she called out. It was good thing that she had great many hours to get the machine as ready as she could with some time to spare to rest beforehand. Getting back out, she walked back over to Elena. "Chief, mind if I grab some tools and give the Wasp a look?"

Getting her hands on a heavy mech, even a fairly pedestrian one like the Dragon, was a high more powerful than that of any narcotic. Just looking at the beast gave Fuka the power to fight anyone and do anything, and the inspection of the cockpit?

Oh, if only she could have harnessed the rush she got sitting so high up! The operation would have been over in under an hour.

But the euphoria induced by getting a new toy faded just like every other drug, Fuka’s excitement cooled by the knowledge that she had a long sixteen hours ahead of her. Part of that time would be spent familiarizing herself with the system to be sure and another chunk would be taken up by sleep, but there was still a good while where she’d be stuck sitting with her mechanical thumb up her ass.

With nothing better to do, she took to roaming the Ankhanne, learning the layout of the death trap that she now called home. Stumbling into the common area she saw that someone else had the same idea. Burn Scars had already taken up residence there, but surely there was room for one more.

"Hey boss, how’s it going?."

Jaromir had spent a few hours familiarizing himself with his new ride, putting work in the simulator. At least the new Trenchbucket was nice and speedy, even if it still had less armor than he would’ve felt comfortable with. The SRM launcher would have to be swapped out at the first opportunity, though. The autocannon ammo was already placed in an absurd spot, and he didn’t need more risks of ammo explosions. But the techs didn’t have the time to even place the autocannon rounds somewhere less ridiculous than in the same compartment as the PPC, so he was just spinning his wheels in the lounge.

He looked up from where he had splayed across an entire couch, raising his only remaining eyebrow at the woman who was addressing him.

”Boss? I know I look like I came out of the meat grinder, but shit, didn’t think I’d resemble that old man just yet.” Jaromir gave a brief, barely amused chortle. ”If you’re looking to kill time, there’s seats over there.” He gestured vaguely around the room, not caring which she ended up taking.

"Most people are 'Boss' to me until I get another name for them."

Ulrik was Sir because she didn't want him to bother her about it, Alvin was Slave because he earned the moniker and Bastard because he was born with it. The hard-faced man spread out over the couch like a bird strike against a Sparrowhawk had been rendered Boss because it seemed nicer than the alternative.

"I'm good, but thanks."
Restlessness had crept in, pushing her to pace the same small section of common room floor even as she sized up her flight-mate. Fuka had plenty of questions for everyone on her new team but no idea which ones to start with. But hey, anything that made conversation was good to bring up, right?

"You were in the war?"

He really shouldn’t have been surprised to be asked about that. It wasn’t something Jaromir liked to talk about, but not for the usual reasons. No, being Capellan and fighting in the war translated to the natural and entirely factual assumption that he’d gotten his shit pushed in. Not the best thing to lead off with among mercenaries if one wanted to be taken seriously. With a sigh, he nodded reluctantly.

”Yep. Second Ariana Fusiliers. Combat drops on Tikonov and Algot. Don’t think I need to explain how that crap went. Swear to God my combat record’s better after I deserted.”

Oh, a Capellan then. The poor bastards had gotten hammered in the outcome, and deservedly after their showing against the 'Free Republic'. To be fair the Combine had also lost pretty badly, but not "a third of its turf went to the FedSuns" badly.

"Yeah I can see that. Nice to meet another deserter though, makes me feel like I'm in good company."

Now it was Fuka's turn to snicker, heels planting themselves against the deck as she spun around abruptly.

"Seriously, I should have done this years ago. Playing soldier but actually getting paid for it? Seems like a pretty good deal!"

For her anyway. Fuka could not imagine doing anything except piloting a mech so her aspirations could only ever be making more c-bills in bigger and badder rides.

”This your first rodeo as a merc?” Jaromir inquired, though he figured he could guess the answer already. ”Fair warning, then: don’t expect to get paid for shit the first few years. You’ll be lucky to make twenty grand a year in most outfits until you make officer or the bean counters realize you’ve been here long enough that you’re actually worth something. The money only just started flowing in for me when my last unit went kaput. Least the room, board, and Mechs are free.” He sighed, before something else came to his mind.

”While we’re here…feel free to tell me to screw off if this’s too personal, but what’s with you and the Feddie? Seems like you’ve got history. You fucking with him or you fucking him?” Not that he especially cared, but it’d be nice to be forewarned of any interpersonal dysfunction before it became a problem in the field.

"Ah, fair enough. Would rather be broke and relatively independent than broke and having the officers breathing down my neck." She had gotten quite enough of that during in time in the Cadres, making sure her buttons were polished because if they weren't the higher-ups would make her run wind sprints in the rain. Fuka could put up with getting ripped off, as long as she managed to squeeze some fun out of the experience.

The mention of the "Feddie" made her smile, the grin absolutely shark-like as she finally came to a halt. "Alvin you mean? Oh that's a great story."

Now Fuka pulled up a chair, dropping into it backwards so she could drape her six-foot frame over the back. "So, I was in the war-" and here she provided proof, pulling away the latex sheath that covered her metal arm.

"Future officer of the Mustered Soldiery, served with distinction until discharged due to injury, you get it. But before I get my arm blown off I'm part of the Sun Zhang Cadres, cadets from officer school given the particularly nasty assignments."

The sleeve was simply laid over over the chairback, Fuka already too into her tale to bother with the fiddly process of putting it back on.

"My flight's out on patrol one day when we get word about a FedSun flight coming our way. We have the advantage where we are so we set up an ambush to blast them apart. No survivors, except for the Shadow Hawk I crippled. Take a guess as to who staggered out of it.

At least she finally stopped pacing. Jaromir simply nodded as Fuka finished her story, mildly surprised by the sheer coincidence behind it all. Shit deal for him, by all accounts. Judging by her calling him a slave, Jaromir could very well surmise what happened next. Considering his parents were slaves in all but name, he couldn’t very well say he approved of such. But at least the Dracs didn’t fucking dress it up while still pretending they were equal.

”House slave, huh? Guess he’s got a reason to be a resentful little shit to you, then. He gonna be that moody with the rest of us? I’d like to have lancemates that know the score. Or, if they can’t manage that, at least be able to shut up about it in the field.”

"Yep! The MPs beat him into next week and shipped back to my family's home, and he was cowed like a good boy his entire tenure. He didn't even try to escape until I skipped out, had to hide in some old laundry."

The experience had been a fond one for Fuka, the samurai chuckling at the memory of it and Alvin's little outburst during the briefing.

"As for you guys, I don't know. On the one hand he's got some pretty strong feelings about battlefield ethics."

The eye-roll was intense. Just because Alvin felt bad about losing didn't mean that anyone else had to play along with his proclivity for hand-holding the enemy.

"On the other, he's probably looking for approval. He claims to be a bastard from Davion, the actual House Davion. Apparently they didn't even give him a pat on the back when he got back home, which is how he ended up here. Whether or not that's true he's all screwed up and desperate for some sort of pride. Give him a few battles and he;ll get over it soon enough, I think."

Oh, for fuck’s sake. This grown man sounded more like a teenager, by all accounts. Jaromir didn’t even bother hiding the roll of his eyes as Fuka described Alvin, one hand rising up to pinch his brow afterward.

”Great. I love sharing the battlefield with overgrown children. He better be good at his job. That, or I really hope you don’t know him as well as you think you do.” Jaromir groused, shaking his head. Then something else occurred to him. It probably should have come to his mind far sooner.

”By the way, don’t think we ever got each other’s names. Jaromir Zhu.”

"Yep. He kind of sucks, but I figure that he'll either get with the program or quit. To be honest, I doubt he's going to live long if he stays, doesn't strike me as the warrior type."

Alvin was amusing, in the same way a housecat was amusing. He took himself too seriously and would hiss when his whims weren't being fulfilled but all it took was a hand on the nape of his neck and he would find himself chucked into a closet until he calmed down.

"Oh right!

The chair was wiggled forward, the younger of the mercenaries tipping her seat forward towards the older.

"Nakano Fuka. Most people use Fuka, I don't really care.

She balanced on the toes of her boots, chair propped up only on its front legs as she extended her robo-hand for Jaromir to take.

"Good to meet you!"

Jaromir took the prosthetic hand and gave it a firm shake in response. No sense being rude to new squadmates, after all. With that done, he rose from his prone position on the couch, standing.

”Think we’ll get along fine. You don’t seem like the type to start reciting bushido at me, and I’m not trying to go all Cappie propaganda on anyone. Hell, I just want to do my job, get paid the big bucks, and retire somewhere quiet. Anyways, think I’m gonna track down the sleeping quarters and get some rack time before we drop. Try not to get yourself killed out there, alright?”

He strolled off, giving a lazy wave behind him as he did so.

---

"Damage?"

"Nothing noteworthy, Leutnant. Wear and tear, mostly. Some minor damage. Some bent armor panels. Fixed it, though. Even had time for a fresh coat of paint. Better than the rest of these antiques. You got some luck, maybe, but you chose well."

He was right, Zohra knew. The electronic warfare equipment was gone from the RVN-2X, courtesy of whatever military outfit that had claimed the BattleMech before the FRR. A pity, state-of-the-art EW equipment would have been nice, but given the state of the some of the other BattleMechs, Zohra was certain that she had little cause to complain. The weapons were functional well within parameters. A Davion inspired refit, the RVN-2X had gained 2.5 tons of armor and a Cyclops Eye large laser mounted in the left torso. According to Zimmerman, the CE LL had been salvaged from a ruined Drillson Heavy Hover Tank.

Before she had redirected him, Zimmerman had spent several minutes explaining the greater reliability afforded by the slit-like emitter design and the endless benefits of avoiding the use of vulnerable long and focusing mirrors in a military grade laser. Beam of light and stream of particles, was mostly what she remembered, and what that meant for penetrating power. The SRM-6 was standard, Harpoon-6, mounted in the right torso with one tone of CASE-protected ammunition in the left torso, a pleasant boon, given the realities of combat. Two Capellan made Kajuka Type 2 "Bright Blossom" medium lasers, nominally intended for Aerospace Fighters, rounded out the weapons Zohra now commanded. A more than respectable loadout for a light mech capable of hitting 97.2 km/h. The C-Apple Churchill targeting/tracking system functioned admirably and Zohra couldn't help but note that Zimmerman had tweaked it admirably based on a brief conversation during her simulation runs.

"Zimmerman?" Zohra finally said, interrupting her brief thoughts of delivering long range doom and violence, and forcing herself to look up from the puttering diagnostic computer that she held in her lap.

"Ja, Leutnant?" the MechTech replied from where he crouched over foot of the Raven-2X, adjusting the step actuator based on the feedback from the program that he had told Zohra to run.

"Please, for the thousandth time, Zimmerman, call me Zohra. You are the expert here. I do not need you call me by my former rank... We are not in the DCMS or any other military outfit."

"Jawohl, Leutnant Zohra," Zimmerman replied, offering a salute as he rose in a sudden movement, bringing his boot heels together with a loud click. The motion seemed so instinctive that Zohra couldn't help but wonder, once again, in the span of several short hours, what sort of MechTech it was that the FRR had assigned her. The squat Lyran had all the subtle touches military training scattered across his oil covered person. LCAF Zohra would have guessed, but she couldn't be sure. Zimmerman had offered no previous rank or military allegiance and she was too polite to broach the subject so early in their relationship.

"The runes painted on the mech? They're beautiful!" Zohra offered instead, beaming a smile at Zimmerman. "Who painted them? It doesn't look like Swedense to me, but I can recognize some of the letters."

Zimmerman shrugged, "It's not, Swedense. It's older by far. And I painted the runes. I had some time to kill. They said you would arrive earlier."

"What do they say? The runes, I mean."

"Old letters. Old words. Quotes I heard or read. Some good luck charms. Old prayers. Several choice messages for Hanse Davion and Theodore Kurita. You know, the usual."

"I doubt it could hurt at this point. What do you think of our chances, Zimmerman? We seem to be embarking on quite the risky operation."

"The odds are long, but I bet that you would last at least ten missions. If it makes any difference, Leutnant. The others...well maybe don't go making any close friends. I heard little by the way of good news before they posted me here."

"Thank you, Zimmerman," Zohra said with a laugh. "That is very reassuring to hear. I will try not to disappoint you."

There was no malice or offense in her voice an she spoke true. She did not begrudge the support personnel their gambling. They were a speculative venture and there was no need to pretend otherwise. Self-created delusions did not last long once the LRMs and large bore autocannon rounds started flying.

"Good, I don't want to owe Elena any money."

Ulrik stood at the end of the long hallway with Elena, watching with a small smirk on his face as all the new pilots chose a mech and got themselves acquainted with their new rides inside the rusty hangar. At the same time, the chief technician seemed to be in a mad dash beside him, jotting down notes and rearranging the time allotments for repairs, prioritizing the issues that concerned the ‘Mechs the mercenaries chose. Even though they had only been on this ship for a few hours, it seemed like they had been doing this their entire life, and the sight sight gave him a rush of nostalgia.

He imagined in front of himself the long barrack buildings, the bays replaced with bunk beds as the room was filled with the hustle and bustle of DCMS infantry from various worlds either trying to rest, or busy making sure nobody could get shut-eye. Back when he was still just a lowly foot soldier, a cog in a much larger machine, the bottom of the battlefield food chain. Still, he missed those days of having nothing to do but still trying to keep busy in front of the boss whilst stationed on the border regions, and he wondered if he’ll ever feel the same sort of belonging as he did back then. Then he remembered his days serving in a ‘Mech lance, but the memories of the 4th Succession Wars quickly snapped him out of his melancholy.

The smirk disappeared from his face and as he looked to his side, he only saw the little spots of machine oil where Elen used to stand, the woman now busy instructing the technicians on the installation of the Firestarter’s cooling system. They still had half a day, but he was already feeling anxious. He didn’t know what to expect, nor from his team, nor from their enemy. And he couldn’t shake this bad gut feeling whenever he thought about “unmarked mechs and vehicles” raiding nearby systems. The last time his unit leader told him that there would be unmarked hostiles in the area, he had to hide for almost a week before friendly forces finally liberated the area and rescued him. If these unmarked forces turn out to be a clandestine operation from one of the great houses, he was more than willing to commandeer the Ankhanne and leave this part of the Inner Sphere behind.

Still, he had pressing matters to attend to. Looking down at the tablet once more to check the time, Ulrik slowly peered back at the mechbay before putting two of his fingers into his mouth and letting out an ear-shattering whistle, muted to an extent by the cacophony of the mech bay but still loud enough to turn a few heads. He hoped it was mostly his pilot’s heads, as his eyesight isn't what it used to be and past the third row he couldn’t make out any of the faces, just blobs and blurs of people going about their business. He took a deep breath and cupped his hands as he brought them to his face, tablet still in hand, and shouted into the bay. “Alright pilots, I’ll see you at 01700 in the mess hall! That’s about 15 minutes, don’t be late!” With that, he waited a few seconds to see if anyone listened, and then decided to send them all a message on their tablets for good measure. Then he waltzed out of the bay, deciding that he’d take his meager lunch and a mug of coffee before the rest of the pilots got to the mess hall.

---

~Ankhanne, Mess Hall~

He had just about finished his coffee when the first of the pilots began to trickle in. Some arrived early, some a little late, but once they were all sitting down and enjoying a delicious offering of lunch leftovers, Ulrik stood up and cleared his throat to get their attention, then motioned with his palms towards the floor for everyone to stay seated. “I hate the rush as much as everyone else, but I need to get orientation finished and some food pumped into everyone before duty takes me to the bridge for the rest of this trip. The time is…” He held a finger up and quickly glanced at his tablet before continuing. “1708 right now, and we’ll be breaking orbit around 1230 ship time tomorrow. We’ll be doing a mid-course flip around 0200 ship time, so don’t eat anything before that if you don’t handle zero-g well. Now, I want everyone to get a good sleep in before the mission if you can: I know tinkering with the mech can be exhilarating, but I’d prefer everyone is awake and ready to engage the moment we make planetfall. The enemy might be waiting for us, so we won’t have time to brew a pot and wake up.”

With that he lifted a leg over the simple plasteel bench and took a few steps away from the tables, folding his arms as he ended up leaning against the simple counter in front of the kitchen. “I’m going to try and press our Republic contacts for more info before the drop, and in the meantime I’ve uploaded everything about the mission and the Ankhane to your tablets. I’ll assume everyone is familiar with the Union-class Dropships, and in that regard I have some good and bad news. Good news is that we’re almost a 1000 tons heavier, minus the rust eating away at this old derelict, so I think you guys will be pleasantly surprised to find that you’ll only need to share a room with one other person: you’ll have to box out who sleeps on the top bunk.” Opening up a schematic on his tablet, he held it up for the crew to see, though everyone could access it anytime on their own if they wanted, so it was more for the show than anything else. “We’re two floors above the ‘Bay, this floor is what the crew have told me they affectionately call the “The Mess”. If you go head right here-” He pointed at the door on the far end of the room. “Then you’ll get to the sick bay, crew lounge and/or bar, and I am happy to say, the simulators. Only two pods, but maybe we can squeeze in some more if this mission goes well. Dr Rachel will give you a tetanus shot if anyone stubs their toe on one of the rusty panels in the ship, otherwise I’m sure you’ll get acquainted with her after the battle. If you head the other way, you’ll find the personal quarters of every officer on the ship, and also the quartermaster’s office. I suggest you go say to Daisuke if you have the time: if you need anything, and I do mean ANYTHING, on the ship for yourself or your quarters, he’ll be the one to ask. He’s also the one who’ll be making sure you guys don’t make a mess, so I suggest being on his good side unless you want to say goodbye to the luxuries of alcohol and clean sheets for your bunk. What else…”

Ulrik looked over the pilots for a second before he stared up at the ceiling above and at the flickering neon lights. “Up a floor is the bridge, the captain’s quarters, and as you know the orientation room. I’m informed that they have gutted one of the truly ancient server rooms that the ship apparently “didn’t need”, so it now serves as the ship’s bar, where I’ve heard our dear Elena makes amazing cocktails, but I wouldn’t expect her to be there anytime soon. And finally, a floor below is the crew deck: that’s all the bunks and cleaning cabinets you’ll need for a lifetime. Daisuke assigned all of you rooms so that all the pilots sleep together and not with the other parts of the crew, but if you want to bunk with a technician, I’m sure we can get that sorted out. Not much else on that floor: a small common area and some storages from what I’ve seen. The rest of the ship is just the engines and storage, so I think that covers orientation.” By the end of his sentence Ulrik had to let out a small sigh. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken this much, but captain Konrad insisted that he told wherever everything was on the ship to his pilots, since the rest of the crew was busy patching up leaks and switching fuses to put the ship into a flyable condition even as they were in transit. The last thing they wanted was for the Ankhanne to be stranded on a moon with a barely breathable atmosphere and enough radiation to kill off anything more complex than moss, lichen and a few plants that adapted to the conditions. Scratching his stubble as he looked over the tablet one last time, Ulrik hung the device onto his belt and gave a nod to the pilots in the mess hall before he pushed himself away from the countertop. “Message me if you need me, or you’ll find my quarters at the end of the hall here. Make yourselves at home, and welcome to the Ankhanne. I want to see everyone in the orientation room tomorrow at 1200 to go over the plan once more before we suit up. Everything else you need to know is on your tablets. That’ll be all.” With one last lingering look over the otherwise empty mess hall, Ulrik pushed himself away from the countertop and raised his ups in a small wave towards the pilots as he disappeared behind one of the doors in the hallway. He was heading up to the bridge to talk with the captain and make reports for his Republic contacts, and he hoped that the new Mechwarriors could occupy themselves for long enough for him to finish his work, get a smidge of sleep, and refine their battle plans before landing. There were a lot of things he still needed to do in the little time they had, but at least they weren’t being shot at, which was a definite improvement over his time spent in the army.

---

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

After speaking with Fuka in the lounge, Jaromir had trudged his way over towards his assigned rack, not bothering to check exactly who his roommate was. He'd find out eventually anyways, and it wasn't as if he could do anything to change it for the moment. Getting a decent amount of sleep in before the mission was more important anyway. Others would have chosen to work on their Mech some more, but the techs were doing all they could at the moment. Him being there wouldn't change anything, especially when there wasn't exactly any time or supplies to do retrofits. Better to be well-rested and alert during the mission than have a slightly better-tuned Mech.

He'd managed a solid seven hours of sleep through the night, even comfortably snoozing through the zero-G turn. Soldiering meant knowing to get your rest in where you could, and he'd been on enough DropShips at this point to be used to such. Whoever his roommate was, they were gone by the time he woke up in the morning, and Jaromir woke up more or less well rested. A quick check of the time revealed that he still had several hours before the briefing at 1200 later in the day. More than enough time for a morning workout, shower, breakfast, and then some time with the Mech before he had to head back to the orientation room.

With that in mind, Jaromir got his ass out of bed, went through his morning ritual, and set off to do what he could for the morning before the inevitable briefing.

Alvin Davion

Being underestimated was an asset, not a flaw, provided that one's ego could take it.

And Alvin's ego can take it. He had lost track of what was happening, but he knew he was being talked about elsewhere. Well, he'll show them once it was time to take on the pirates. But first, he had to eat in the mess hall, take note of Captain Ulrik's behavior and words - He cannot trust him to be the father figure he wanted yet (Alvin was honest enough about his goals) - and then get acquainted with his fellow teammates, at least the ones whom Fuka had not shit-talked him to first.

Speaking of Fuka, Alvin had a plan to show her how much he had grown, but he can wait to start it after he had proven himself in battle; he knew enough to know that if he kept his head and acquainted himself with the Hermes-II's systems, he can do his part and maybe carry the day for the Lance.

A big maybe; one that relied on him not being arrogant, on him knowing his strengths and weaknesses well and being able to land a hit on the pirates' degraded mechs and whatever surprises they may have. He grinned at that and thought, Fuka is better at shooting and taking shots. But I know her better than she thinks; she's going to have to rely on the others to cover her lack of agility when she actually is in a BattleMech.

He had observed her as she had annihiliated his Lance. He had overheard hushed conversations during his time of enslavement. And of course, he had picked up whatever information he could whenever she 'deigned' to talk to him. He was confident in her overconfidence and was willing to feed the latter to make her future defeat even sweeter.

But for now, Alvin Davion was going to his allotted room and his allotted roommate - He needed to talk to one other person if he was to get acquained with his new potential family. Whether that person was someone Fuka already got to or not didn't matter; Alvin can win them over enough to live and let live.

Worst-case scenario, I get a non-friend whom I have to stay away from outside of combat operations, but cannot frag me as I literally cannot be replaced yet, Alvin calculated; he thought nothing of trying to be calculating as long as no one was hurt. Best-case scenario, I get a genuine friend whom I can laugh with, share fun times with, and talk about one's hopes and dreams.

Including his own, secret dream and hope that not only can he return to the 'Golden World' of Argyle, but do so with his head held high, acknowledged by his kin, in addition to the even more secret dream and hope that maybe, just maybe, something would happen to the Davions of Argyle and leave him the ruler of that world by default - It wouldn't even be treason if all he did was be away and wait for an accident or someone else's resentments to... No, it would still be a betrayal.

Bloodline meant something, even if tainted with bastardy. If something did happen to the Davions of Argyle, he would help them first, his loyalties can be called on. But would it be so bad to rise up above his allotted station, in a legitimate manner, and eventually be acknowledged by all?

A family, wealth, and a landhold, Alvin thought. That is my minimum. As for my maximum... I want everything I can get within the bounds of reason and morality.

Hamazasp perused his clock: he'd successfully surpassed two hours of sedentary reading. The battlefield's wandering might occupy an afternoon, but the reading period surpassed his expectations of survival once directly engaged. He diagnosed himself: this length of seating was adequate, and nothing fell asleep. He stretched and stowed his novel carefully in order.

He departed his cockpit and routed his way towards quarters: the intended sleeping place, though the Locust was surprisingly comfortable and doubtlessly better cushioned. He passed and ignored several wayward locations, future amenities for less introductory periods.

Fuka familiarized herself with the Dragon and deemed it suitable: massive and bulky. It possessed armor and speed, both sufficient to compensate for her shortcomings as a pilot. She’d never enact brilliant strategies or perform backflips in her 'mech. She was a refined marksman and a superior brawler and through the Dragon could excel in either discipline. Not that she wouldn’t upgrade if opportunities emerged; her AC/5 was a little anemic for her liking. Once the team spread pirates across the landscape, there'd be abundant salvage to parse through, provided Alvin didn’t protest over civil rights.

She stalked the hallways with the aimless aggression of a friendly shark, the gently happy expression she wore morphing into a toothy grin as a flight mate approached. “Hey boss, can you help? Won’t take beyond a few minutes.”

Hamazasp froze, then glanced behind him to ensure she requisitioned him. The House Kurita amazon who at introduction earned herself a reputation of rubbing her teammates the wrong way and toying with them as she pleased now propositioned him for a brief favor. Unprepared for this encounter, he instinctively stepped backwards but piped, “Certainly, what’s the issue?” Locked into engagement, he resignedly assembled a slight, surprisingly more genuine smile.

She recognized him by looks as opposed to name, the bearded man with the thick coat and weird cheek tattoo who spoke like he was constantly kowtowing to some noble or another. Of course, Fuka was minor nobility and thus found his speech amusing. “Oh there’s no problem, I’m just down a partner: here, follow me.”

Without waiting for response, she barreled down the hallway at a walk that matched most people’s jog. If the Gent (as she'd already taken to calling him) wasn’t inclined, he wouldn’t pursue; no use in wasting words. “We’re going to the crew lounge, there’s some ratty shag carpet or something there. It’ll cushion our falls.”

Hamazasp attempted to guess what required a couplet falling onto a carpet. Most options were wholly inappropriate for brief acquaintances. …Trust falls? He appreciated confirmations of reliability in dire combat situations, especially seeing as he’d lost that assurance in prior encounters. Her final words passed out of earshot.

Fuka hadn’t expected to lose her tail (whose name she'd yet to ask) but wasn’t particularly surprised. She habitually moved faster than the world desired, long legs ferrying her at speeds that always seemed a tad high for the situation. It spoke to her impatience and desire for attention, her constant scurrying unbecoming of Draconis samurai…

…or so she'd been told, anyway. The criticism likely bore truth, but since when had criticism ever concerned her?

Pseudo abandoned, Hamazasp flagged a passerby. “Pardon, how might I locate the lounge?” The tech silently, irritatedly motioned out directions, and Hamazasp casually retraced the instructions to the destination. A minute passed between the two entrances. If she desired a partner so desperately, a modicum of patience sufficed, so he surmised. The wait let him preemptively regret his decisions, anyways.

He knocked on the doorway's rim, scanned the enclosure for concerns, then focused on the madam. She already slipped out of her boots as he entered. “Very well; I'm available," he stated. "What activity have you organized?”

“Sparring! It’s better to practice with live bodies and you look tough enough. No head shots obviously,” she announced, dropping into a low stance, grinning wide and inviting as she raised her arms.

While grateful to avoid his envisions, Hamazasp hadn’t calculated this possibility because such pastimes rarely crossed his mind. Having operated within the Draconis Combine, he’d naturally been exposed secondhand. His knowledge's extent didn’t surpass an introductory course; his sparring partners being minors, he promptly dropped the interest.

He discarded his shoes and coat; regardless, if she required a punching bag, he’d comply. His posture reflected European medieval martial arts, most notably the “plow,” the most balanced he could replicate. He lacked the appropriate sword for the position. Her sharp eyes detected a modicum of training, his stance foreign to her but undeniably ready. He maintained two advantages: he was well read and possessed endurance for a severe beating. He’d undoubtedly lose this engagement, but he’d make a valiant, arguably "honorable," effort. “No hard feelings, I suppose; you appear well versed on the subject.”

Quite capable of being competitive without spoiling her fun, she'd kick the gentleman’s ass to keep her ego intact. “I’m pretty good but hey, it’s all fun: no hard feelings.”

Hamazasp rarely despised a phenomenon greater than a braggart taking pride in obvious or unearned advantages. The rich flaunting wealth at the poor, the gambler with a full house displaying his fanned cards as a peacock's feathers, the victor dancing above the victim. “I’m pretty good” was weightier than Fuka considered as she casually dropped the line, and it took Sulser immense patience to suppress his emotions. Of course she excelled; it was the farmhand’s duty to determine how much.

He remained motionless for an uncomfortable amount of time. She kept stock-still as the moments ticked on, happy to let his counterpart commence while she sized up his defenses. Fighting on foot brought a very different side of Fuka, the boisterous 'mech brawler set aside for careful reactions and counter reactions.

Obviously she’d dodge his lunge and attempt to capitalize, he mused. He should feign one attempt and strike with a second. When amply ready, he shoved his left palm towards her stomach's right side, then chopped the air with his offhand towards her left hip. Given circumstances, worse options existed.

Instead of deflecting she elected to step back, neatly avoiding that first feint but in range of the true attack. Her forearm blocked that, retaliating with a quick kick at the shins to give herself breathing room. The faster Fuka employed her full range of motion, the better; those long limbs were for more than running.

His shins hurt, but please; bovines had casually taken shots at his legs for years, and he’d grown accustomed to tanking the pain. His bones weren’t broken; he bore it sturdily. If his career on the Shinonoi ranch taught him anything, it was how to handle larger creatures than himself. And it was time for cow tipping.

With his free arm, and a free leg, he advanced forward, ignoring entirely the concept of personal space. Attempting to poke at whatever seemed vulnerable, his actions reflected less method and more flailing noise. That was the intention: blind her to all else. Once sufficiently kerfuffled, Hamazasp theorized, a slight push would send the titan hurtling downward.

Hilariously, Fuka found herself on the receiving end of her favorite 'mech strategy: don’t stop swinging. It wasn’t an ineffective strategy, and often the best for beginners. No time to fumble barely remembered strategies, no tripping over your own half formed stance, just constant movement to overwhelm your opponent.

But Fuka was capable enough to weather and counter, tucking her chin behind her arms in a traditional boxer’s stance as her partner rushed. He could pat and slap but would never receive easy access. She kept her center low and solid as she braced against the assault.

Her mechanical arm wasn’t stronger than her flesh-and-blood alternate but didn't tire; she snatched out with it, attempting to grip the man’s wrist. The counteraction succeeded, halting Hamazasp’s mad rush. Cowherd that he was, the Taurian lacked the proper physique to directly counter the amazon’s play. Her grip was tight, so he couldn’t slip away. He had moments, but his education in other disciplines (notably armored warfare) at minimum taught him impromptu action. He simply didn’t excel at it.

His arm was incapacitated, but so was hers; his remaining available limbs sufficed. He removed himself as range permitted, twisting his arm in her grasp and ducking. He swiveled around and pushed himself backward, his spine pressed against Fuka’s lower torso. His leg tried to reach her leg to lock it in place. Now fully enclosed within his adversary, he could with an amenable position drag her across him onto the ground. It was an extremely vulnerable position, quite handily thwart-able. High risk, high reward.

He provided a damn fine try but was nonetheless outmatched. She retained her grip even as he attempted to twist out of it, moving her feet to keep her legs from total entanglement. She had freedom of movement to shift herself but must act quickly.

“Y’know, I realized something.”

Her arms snagged his middle without any warning beyond words. The samurai grunted in effort as she lifted her partner’s feet off the ground and slammed him into the carpet.

“I never got your name.”

Hamazasp was too preoccupied, first with the counterattack and next with the pain, to fully grasp her comment. Steadfastly hunched, he landed squarely on his buttocks. He’d feel the repercussions through tomorrow’s engagement. Unsurprisingly, the Japanese amazon warrior woman possessed strength.

He relaxed himself, gradually orientating himself in his new position. He dragged himself up, then bowed in earnest salute as was custom of House Kurita. “Sulser, Hamazasp."

"Nakano, Fuka," she reciprocated.

The Taurian arose and promptly excused himself, "Pardon, my sleeping quarters await.” With that, he promptly departed the lounge.

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

Trial and error plagued his route to his cabin, but he eventually arrived at his destination. His book was undisturbed, but another Mechwarrior slept in the above bunk, as the dim twilight suggested. Hamazasp accustomed to the new lighting and judged that his new bunkmate was that freed Davion slave. It appeared that he’d be receiving both ends of the baggage train. He hoped the second didn't hurt nearly as much as the first. Nonetheless, he’d make his comrade feel welcome.

His voice made no noise, but he didn’t bother to mask his footsteps, or the soft yet unmistakable rustling of his clothes' fabric. In the darkness, he ravaged his backpack for a pocket flashlight. Upon obtaining it, he opened up his novel and parsed its pages for ants and found none. He scoured his bed for ants and found none. He was relieved that he had no immediate obligations; he was presently in no state to care for other lifeforms.

He mounted the uncomfortable cot and alighted his book's black prose. He managed to conclude another chapter, but his brain hurt from the stark contrast in illumination. He slipped the book into his backpack, turned off his flashlight, and dropped it in to follow. If lazy ants still inhabited the pouch, he abandoned the (literal) little buggers to fend for themselves.

He tossed and turned in artificial gravity; his mindset wasn't yet appropriately wired for the new environment. Once the aching concluded and fatigue set in, Hamazasp dreamed that he wandered through a labyrinth filled with meadows. A feeling of hopelessness beset him, counteracted by the beautiful purple flowers. He met a heifer at the midway point of the maze. He sat crisscross and asked the heifer a few questions about the meaning of life. The bovine began to explain by discussing the physics behind jump drives, then wandered away to locate greener grass. The Taurian conveyed to collegiate students these teachings at a university, and he inspired a plethora of doctorates. Suddenly, a locomotive cracked the classroom, headed straight for our protagonist.

He woke up to self propagated darkness and pain, as he was certain his bunk mate did every morning in a separate sense. He rolled around. That must’ve been eight hours, right? Regardless, his body had chosen to arise and wouldn’t return to slumber; 'twas best to supply it. He stumbled upright. He had a change of clothes, but he’d postpone that for a lighter room and a less groggy mood.

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

For a fresh merc outfit, the food was…surprisingly not complete and utter dog shit. Jaromir shoveled a bite of breakfast into his mouth, washing it with watery coffee. It wasn’t good by any means, but “not awful” was practically gourmet for military cuisine as it stood. For mercs, the difference in quality was starker. They'd recently deployed with supplies just loaded. It remained to be seen how long halfway decent supplies would last before powdered eggs and instant coffee surfaced.

While eating, Jaromir studied the sparse mission data on his tablet. His expectations for the newly-founded nation's hires were moderate, but the god damn Vikings couldn’t manage that. He set the tablet with a mildly disgusted groan and returned to his breakfast.

Sulser stumbled in. His eyes seemed completely shut, though his swift reactions to obstacles suggested a slight crack. His tray would have defied gravity by keeping upright; as they were in space, they defied physics. The meal clattered onto a table by Jaromir, a single drop of suspicious fruit juice spilling out of the cup. Its brief suspension reminded Hamazasp that he operated in foreign gravity, not that the reminder was necessary after his horrid prior evening of slumber.

He phlumped onto a seat and stared at his breakfast for an age. He didn’t touch alcohol but nonetheless felt hungover. He wished he was drunk, with revelry to compensate for his mental state. Pancakes and hash browns. His singular piece of fresh meat was a substandard sausage. He’d sacrifice for the others, or, if luck allowed, for lunch. He glanced at Jaromir with baggy, weary pupils. “Late night: the Draconis girl asked me to… you know what, not worth it.” He sectioned off his territory with a fork.

Hearing the slamming tray, Jaromir glanced up and raised his good eyebrow at the man sitting across from him. Boy, did he look like shit. He wasn't surprised that the Combine girl was involved again: regular little social butterfly, if an obsessed jockey counted as social. He briefly weighed whether or not he actually gave enough of a shit to ask what exactly happened. If his neighbor suddenly decided against sharing, it wasn’t his business to pry. Not directly, at least.

”You look like hell.” Jaromir grunted as he cut up a piece of breakfast sausage and chomped. ”And that’s coming from the guy with half his face burnt off. Decided to check the bar last night? Our resident Kurita foot soldier did strike me as a party girl.”

“Party, my entire behind,” Hamazasp stated, rubbing the mentioned object. “I know Kurita customs for festivities, and that wasn’t it,” he sighed. “I'd show you the bruise here, but I figure it’s implied. Who practices hand combat for armored warfare?" He plugged his fork into his mouth, weathering the fatigued mental storm inside. He swallowed. “A samurai, that’s who. Gosh dang, that entire warrior culture demands an overhaul.” He took a sip. “Don’t tell any Draconis I said that. Yourself?”

Jaromir suppressed a snort as he swigged his orange juice. Not concentrate, either: a miracle of God.

”You said yes? I mean, I don’t blame you if you wanted to punch her in the face a little. I can see the excuse, at least. Neurohelmet means it’s good to learn to keep your balance after getting rattled.” He spoke after a couple more bites. ”Where’d you get your training from, anyway? Gonna hazard a guess, Combine?”

Hamazasp planted a fork into a sausage. “No training whatsoever.” The introductory course from years ago didn’t count. “She merely informed me she required an individual for matters that required cushions in the crew lounge, and I figured-” he pointed his sausage at Jaromir. “Not what you’re thinking. I wished to improve group cohesion. I doubt anything was improved, regardless of my actions. And now I’m unreasonably sore, hours from battle.” He ate, then quietly finished his meal's protein centerpiece. “Nonetheless, inform me if you’d appreciate assistance of a separate, nonphysical substance. What of your endeavors?”

Jaromir nearly choked on his coffee. This guy couldn't have meant what he thought he meant. A few hacking coughs later, the Capellan caught his breath enough to reply. ”Read the intel, slept like a baby. That’s not important; let’s return to you. The hell do you mean, you’ve had no training? You mean no hand to hand, right? Tell me either you can pilot a BattleMech or you’re screwing with me.”

Hamazasp reset his fork. His voice bore a softer volume than his words implied. “I can pilot a BattleMech. I’d embark with military ranks otherwise, on an actually space worthy ship. Wasn’t the conversation about hand combat? Sheesh.” He relaxed and eyed his hashbrown. “Apologies; I cite my mental state to explain, not to excuse. I likely don’t share your battle experience, but I have mobilized a ‘mech and operated its firearms. A Spider, if it pleases you, and yes, Combine. You may rely on me in battle. Well, you may after I’ve finished this hashbrown.”

Thank god for small mercies. At least the guy was just fucking with him. Jaromir sighed as he leaned back in his seat, his meal all but concluded.

Sulser bit the fried potatoes and closed his eyes. He didn’t seem to savor it but to quiet himself internally. The meal bore no nuance; immediately swallowing or internally reflecting made no difference. He should’ve affirmed inadequate experience and watched Jaromir momentarily flip. Hamazasp only abided so much underestimation in a twenty-four hour timespan. He cleared his mouth, then his throat. “Anything in the intel strike you as curious? I noticed a few details in places, but nothing worth bringing to attention.”

”Alright, sorry, had to make sure. Wouldn’t believe the kinds of people that sneak into the hiring halls sometimes. As for the intel, I noticed only the lack of it. We’ve got topographical data and that’s it. I'm certain the boss’ll lay it out.”

The immediate question on Hamazasp’s mind was what unskilled labor managed to infiltrate the hiring halls, but he tabled that musing for later. “Thanks; I perused it prior, but another review seems tempting.”

Jaromir finished his coffee and returned his mug. ”Be careful out there, alright? Even if the pirates don’t have surprises, it’d be downright embarrassing for anyone to get taken out by Locusts. Don’t need to be bleeding people in our first drop.”

“Same goes both ways!” Hamazasp smiled, then shook his head. “Whoops; I referred to the enemy. You take care as well to be certain, but I operate a Locust myself in this upcoming scuffle. It’d be rather shocking for everyone involved if I appeared on the scoreboard! Myself included, I suppose,” he chuckled. “Pleasure meeting you, Jaromir. You seem a genuine fellow, and this was certainly not the worst encounter I’ve had aboard this vessel. Potentially the best.” He raised his juice glass to that notion.

”Your only other meeting in this outfit so far involved you getting punched out. That bar’s so low it’s underground.” Jaromir snarked in response, though he raised his emptied mug regardless. "Genuine" was a rare compliment, though any compliment was rare. He stood up with his tray. ”CO said to meet in the orientation room at noon sharp. Don't be late; no point in him getting pissy before our drop. Maybe get a snooze in before then.”

“Concurred; Morning,” Hamazasp replied. He gazed into his cup as his compatriot’s footsteps faded into the multitude. A conglomerate operated best when individual components functioned in tandem. In a mere sixteen hours, he’d learned his comrades' calibers, and discovered what caliber he must possess to compensate.

Rasalhague's assigned mechanic had less experience than he; Hamazasp should be knowledgeable. His bunk mate brought baggage that he couldn’t carry; Hamazasp should emotionally fortify himself. The dragoness used and dismissed individuals on a whim; Act in humility and grow strong independently. Only the grizzled veteran was apparently reliable, and he underestimated Hamazasp. The Taurian cheese maker had plenty to prove. Brief rest was sage advice. He concluded his beverage and collected his tray. Before then, he’d check if they allowed additional helpings of the hash browns and pancakes.

On the far end of the Mess, Remy sat alone at a small table, digging his spoon into a bowl of questionable brown slop. He didn't look at the slop, the spoon, the bowl, or even the other Mechwarriors talking about whatever it was they'd gotten into last night. His eyes were fixed dead ahead, at the scowling fat woman serving breakfast to the Ankhanne's crew. The fat lady glared right back at him, as she had for the past ten minutes.

Slowly, deliberately, he raised the spoon with a heaping helping of mysterious brown slime, put it in his mouth, and slurped it down.

"Mmmm," he said, his voice a barely contained growl. "Good chili."

"Hey, you Overkill?"

Remy felt a thump on his shoulder. "Oi pal, you listenin'? I'm lookin' fer Overkill."

With no small degree of annoyance, Remy broke eye contact with the fat mess lady to see who had thumped him on the shoulder.

"Well, you found him," he said, before raising an eyebrow at the sight before him.

Standing with her left hand on her hip and a prosthetic right hand holding a technician's noteputer was a tattooed woman in black coveralls and a purple tank top that matched her spiked hair. She had a tattoo of a hand of poker cards on one side of her neck: Aces and Eights, the old "Dead Man's Hand." Her left arm was sleeved from shoulder to wrist in a mash of clashing patterns that looked like a graphic designer had stepped on a land mine, and the mechanical housing of her right arm had engravings to match. She had a half-dozen piercings on each ear, a ring on her lip, and if Remy were a betting man, a few more he'd be interested in seeing some other time.

"Steph Fitzpatrick, the 'Mech tech assigned to th' Foirestarter," she introduced herself, her voice carrying a thick St. Ives Irish lilt. "Elena th' Chief Tech had me an' the boys up 'alf the bloody noight troyin' ta fix leakages in th' coolin' system. The patch job oughta hold fer th' mission, so long as ya keep from rollin' yer face across't th' command console. I just need ye ta soign off on th' work order so's I can--....Christ, what are you eatin'?"

Remy turned his glare back at the fat lady at the counter. "Chili."

"Sure that's chili, fella?" Steph asked with a chuckle.

"That's what the lady says," he growled.

"Looks ta me loike someone poured some red pepper an' a can o' corn into a bucket o' congealed engine grease, an' saved it fer if one o'th' new Mechwarriors really pissed 'er off."

"It does look like that," Remy said, before taking another slow, deliberate slurp. "It's real tasty."

"So whaddidja do?" Steph asked with an impish grin.

"I said I'd like to have some sausage and eggs before I headed out for the mission," he answered, "and offered to give her some sausage when I got back."

Fitzpatrick burst out laughing. "Fuckin' hell!"

Remy kept his glare on the cafeteria lady. "She said she was fresh out of sausage, but that if I liked the chili, maybe we'd talk."

He slurped another spoonful, and thumped a fist against his chest to help force it down, never breaking eye contact the whole time.

"It's real. Good. Chili," he stated as his stomach audibly gurgled.

"Y'know that'll probably make ya shit yerself in th' cockpit, yeah?" Steph said.

"Maybe," he shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Steph scoffed in disbelief. "What, wouldn't be th' first time ye shat yerself?"

"Ever gone up on the front lines against the Black Widow Company?" he asked.

"Can't say I 'ave, but what's that gotta do with--"

"Well there you go," Remy said with a flatness that implied that was the end of that particular line of conversation.

"Well," the Mech-tech cleared her throat, "If ye wouldn't moind soignin' off on this 'ere work order, we'll get the last bit o' prep done before drop. Anythin' you wanna request before then?"

"Nah," Remy waved her off. "Just gonna enjoy my breakfast, get the job done, then come back here and see what's on the menu."

"Suit yerself," the tech shrugged. "I'll make sure ta leave a fresh pair o' shorts in th' cockpit fer ye if ye need it."

As Fitzpatrick left the Mess, Remy took one last spoonful of slop, looked the cafeteria lady dead in the eye, and wolfed it down.

"Good fuckin' chili."

~Ankhanne, Briefing Room~

The chirp from his watch woke Ulrik up from his daydreaming, and indicated that it was time for him to begin the briefing. Looking over the info on his tablet one more time, he finally placed the rugged device down on the table and then stared into the eyes of his otherwise silent pilots. Once more the only sound in the room for a few second was the sound of people shifting, and the sound of barely functioning fans rattling in the air conditioning system. Last time he was here, he wasn't really sure what to say to his pilots given how little info he actually had available. This fact remained mostly unchanged: he still wasn't sure what to say, but at least they finally had intel which did bring a small smile onto the otherwise stern man's face.

He gave himself a second to look over the faces of all the MechWarriors one more time before he sat down on the edge of the table and tapped the tablet besides him with one hand. "I see everyone has had their beauty sleep like I recommended. Good. Hopefully we won't die today then." Hopefully. Taking a mix of rookies and misfit veterans into a dropzone against unknown hostiles was a gamble he didn't like the odds of, but at least fatigue won't be the reason they get shot. At least not mental: he wasn't sure about the metal fatigue of the rustbuckets they received from the Republic.

"I'll keep it short and sweet this time. About an hour ago we entered orbit, and we've had some time to analyze our scans. The good news is that we have a reasonably detailed topographic map that we've updated to all your rides. The bad news is that we'll be fighting an uphill battle in what appears to be a small valley." Grabbing his tablet momentarily, the screen behind him flickered to life and showed a much more detailed version of the map they had seen before. At one end of the gently winding valley nestled at the foot of the crater was a large circle marked as the "drop zone", whilst on the other end a sizeable military structure embed into the side of the hill was marked and outlined in red. "We'll be landing at the foot of the valley, as close as the Ankhanne can get us. Even the best of these eggships don't like it when you land them on an incline, and we're not risking a mission failure before we can even embark."

Ulrik walked besides the screen and pointed at the middle of the valley with two fingers. "This is our route. We identified the enemy base, and it seems to have minimal static defense. However, we've seen an unknown DropShuttle land there just a few hours ago, and we've picked up a few mech signatures patrolling the area, mostly below 40 tons in size. No transponders on either the shuttle or the mechs, so we still don't know the identity of the OpFor."

He slowly switched sides in front of the screen, and dragged a line with his other hand on either sides of the valley. "Zohra, Karel: we'll have the two of you scan either side of the valley in case the patrols start coming back: I don't want to be surprised by a few Panthers peeking over the edge and picking us off from a distance. Fuka, Alvin" He turned over to the two Mechwarriors before patting the screen with his fingers at the mouth of the valley. "You two are with me, we'll take point and push up in the valley. We'll need to take the brunt of the fire if combat ensues, preferably without getting our mech shot out from under us. The rest of the lance will stay behind and follow at a distance. Until we know what we're up against, I don't want anyone to run towards our target."

Turning to the screen, he zoomed in on the compound and used the tablet to highlight a few key points. "We know there is a hangar inside the facility for mechs as well as aersopace fighters and shuttles, but we don't know how big it is under the surface. Our Scans show the facility is old: it must've been established some time after the planet was abandoned and the radiation hazard was gone. Once we get here, we'll make our way inside and secure the facility, by force if necessary. We take any equipment we can move, and destroy anything we can't: remember, the goal is to make sure that our mystery friends can't conduct raids on Rasalhague territory anymore. Bonus points if we figure out who they are."

Ulrik waited for a few more seconds before he looked down at his watch, eyes narrowing as he examined the time: 12:11. That didn't leave them much time before planetfall. "Alright, let's wrap it up and head to the bay. We're landing in 20." With that, he quickly turned off the screen and motioned at the door for everyone to get going. "If you have any other questions, do it once we're all strapped in."

---

~Ankhanne, Mech Bay~

Strapped into the cockpit of his Centurion, Ulrik finally felt at home. He preferred the cold, calculating action of combat to the often confusing role of trying to lead their merry band of mercenaries. But now that he robotically turning switches and pressing buttons, movements that have been burnt into his memory over the years, his mind was finally clear. Finally he pressed the ignition, and the machine hummed to life around him, fusion core and myomer bundles coming to life as the displays in the cockpit lit up. Running a quick diagnostics check, he looked around the bay to see his MechWarriors doing the same, and the mechtechs doing the last, final minute adjustments as the klaxons began to blare and a warm, orange light filled the bay.

"This is your 60 second warning for atmospheric entry. Strap in, everyone." He made sure that everything inside the cockpit was secured tightly, and had just enough time to adjust the chins traps on his neurohelm before the ship began to rattle underneath them. At first it was gentle, almost unnoticable, but over the next few seconds it slowly intensified into an ungodly rollercoaster that felt like they had been put into a paint shaker.

It only lasted a minute before the ship had finally slowed down, but it was enough to remind Ulrik why he hated large DropShips like this over the smoother entry of smaller shuttles. Few seconds later a message popped up in his helmet's HUD, and he frowned as he adjusted his mic into position. "Final checks everyone, make sure your diagnostics show green, we're doing a running start. Plasma blackout is over, and scanners show that the hostiles have finally noticed us: we'll have company as soon as we land. Remember the plan: Karel, Zhora, take the flanks, the rest is with me up the middle. Fall back if you meet anything you can't outrun our outshoot. If things go tits up, we run back here and hope the captain kept the engines warm. Let's not lose a mech on the first assignment." With that he slowly reached down and grabbed the stick of his trusty Centurion, enjoying the familiar touch of the time-worn plastic that had been smoothed to near perfection over years of use.

Suddenly a mighty roar filled the hangar as the retro boosters fired up for the last meters of the landing, and an uncomfortable 2,3 Gs weighted down on the crew for a few moments before disappeared, and with a loud THUD the Ankhanne came to a halt. As the rockets finally died down, an eerie silence follower for a few long seconds that seemed to stretch into eternity, before the gates of the mech bay slowly began to open. Leaning forward in his seat and pushing up the throttle, Ulrik got his Centurion into a light stroll as he walked up to the opening gates, and saw as his MechWarriors left their cubicles too and joined him.

Behind the opening doors laid a long and winding valley covered in lychen and snow, with small glacial flow running up it's length like a river. Either sides the slops of the valley ran at a steep angle upwards until they quite suddenly disappeared into the plains behind at an altitude of 200 feet. It was certainly much more jarring than the orbital pictures made it out to be, but not as bad as Ulrik had feared. Over the slopes that laid in the valley's bends, they could just make out in the distance the blinking lights of the compound they were supposed to storm: a leisurely stroll in a light mech on a good day, but a potential marathon if they ran into stiff resistance.

"No hails from the garrison: treat all contacts as hostile." The ramp had just finished lowering and he got his Centurion to start jogging down the ramp when Ulrik spotted a tiny flash in the distance, from atop one of the ridgelines surrounding the valley. Moments later a thunderous crash could be heard as a supersonic shell crashed into his cockpit, leaving a spiderweb of cracks on the armored glass as it hit it's mark but failed to penetrate. Instinctively raising one of his hands to cover his face, his Centurion did the same, and after a heartbeat of hesitation he let loose a shot from his Large Laser towards the ridgeline, missing the top by a few feet as the bright laser shot off towards space. "Motherf-..." It was startling to receive a blow like this so soon after landing, but he wasn't surprised: he and his infantry platoon had used the same strategy countless of times before.

"Infantry contact on the ridgeline, 1 o'clock! Everyone spread out and keep your eyes peeled! Karel, take the right flank and gives the welcome party a roast! Zhora, take the left, check to see if we have more friends waiting for us. Fuka, you're up front!" He barked orders as yet another shell zipped past, just narrowly missing his cockpit this time and shooting off on a ballistic trajectory as it ricoched off his mech's shoulderplate. Such anti-mech infantry rifles were only useful in numbers, but a direct hit on the fragile cockpit was still a viable tactic. As the rest of the lance began to unload, several more shots rang out, and shooters on both sides began firing in an attempt to score some critical hits. Shrugging off a few more shots as the Dragon began to take the brunt of the rifle fire, Ulrik let loose a few bursts of his Medium Lasers at the ridgelines to keep the infantry pinned as he checked his sensors. "Two lances of vehicles coming just around the bend: they seem like J. Edgars and... Goblins? That can't be right, they still make those?" Ulrik didn't have time to ponder whether or not his sensors were lying to him or not, as the very real beams of the Large Laser from the first Goblin taking the corner managed to hit Fuka's Dragon directly in the Right Torso, sending sparks and molten metal flying in all directions. "We've got mech signatures closing in fast, we need to deal with these tanks before they get here!"

---

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

Alvin Davion

So, a literal uphill battle against pirates who had obsolete tanks and artillery as well as brave but reckless infantry. Alvin smiled and thought, Perfect.

He didn't hesitate to fire his Mech's laser at the Goblin that had hit Fuka, finding that model of tank to be the more dangerous threat to his Lance. At the same time, he hoped that this did not mean that the FedSuns were involved somehow, as his home nation favored using Goblins a lot.

...Nah, couldn't be. He was just being paranoid. Glancing at Fuka and her slightly damaged mech, Alvin knew that as long as she was not obliged to move at the same pace as him and Ulrik, this was her specialty and that she'd probably take down her share of the enemy as long as she didn't trip over her own Mech's feet; he'd heard enough rumors to know it had happened before.

Slow and steady, Alvin, the young man reminded himself. He'd show her how much he had improved in time; let her rack up the kills for now and help her up if her Mech does trip.

Firing his autocannon to cover his', Ulrik's, and Fuka's advance, Alvin purposefully lost himself in the meditative rythm of battle, waiting for the enemy's numbers to drop. He knew that the other Mechs in the Lance would be making their own showing now; who knows, they might be acquiring a higher kill count or otherwise performing better than he and his... What did he think of Fuka, anyway?

He found sure footing as he advanced with Ulrik up the valley, covering his Captain's side as he burnt another group of infantry with a direct laser hit, murmuring a quick prayer for their souls. Then he used the split-second he gained for himself to think, Fuka's someone I want to acknoweldge me.

"Tch!" he shouted as his own mech shuddered; the enemy must have hit him with something that can hurt. But it didn't hurt enough, and so Alvin Davion shrugged it off.

I've always fought for recognition for as long as I live, he thought as he fired another autocannon burst at the Goblins and J. Edgars, bursting what seemed like one of the latter. What's so different now, other than I have control over my own destiny? Well, some control.

He then noticed that Zohra's Raven and Karel's Mongoose were the optimal BattleMechs to keep the flanks safe; he had to admit, Davion-hater though he was, Ulrik was a good commander and credit must be given where credit was due.

Honestly, Alvin thought as a supersonic shell whizzed past him, He's a puzzle. A puzzle that might yet be used to harm my nation. We're not saints, but there's no better option for Humanity than the Federated Comonwealth, despite our own atrocities - Unless the rumors about the Taurian Concordat are true, in which case we suck and they should control Humanity's destiny instead. We'll see...

@6slyboy6@Abstract Proxy@Starlance@AndyC@QJT@Psyker Landshark@Forsythe@Smike

“Reactor… Online. Sensors… Error. Online. Weapons… Online. All systems nominal.”

”The fuck?” He slapped the side of the sensor screen as if it would help, percussive maintenance nonetheless being an important ritual. Must’ve been a faulty sensor somewhere. Probably. Hopefully. ”Up and running.”

---

As they set down, he nudged the throttle carefully to get out of the bay, the light and overengined machine requiring a bit of precision lest he’d speed right into the ‘Mech on the opposite side. While the Cicada he piloted previously had the same rated top speed, being 15 tons heavier it took longer to accelerate and stop. Despite its venerable age, this thing was a rocketship.

”Chalupa, got it.” He confirmed the order and turned toward where he spotted a part of the valley’s wall that looked climbable, the 25 ton machine leaning into the turn under him almost like a motorcycle as he rammed the throttle open. No time to ease it forward like he planned to, it simply would have to hold. As the Mongoose built up speed, it started bouncing side to side with each step. So far nothing broke. Try hitting this cockpit now, fuckers. He leaned forward into the climb as he started ascending up the valley wall, the ‘Mech barely slowing down. When the user manual said the engine made up for the lack of jump jets, he was skeptical. Not anymore. He liked jump jets, but he could get used to this.

Karel stopped the ‘Mech as he reached the top of the canyon wall, raising its left arm to shield the cockpit from where he expected the enemy anti-Mech infantry to be. Taking a step further to get the head above the surface, he took a few seconds for his sensors and eyes to scan the horizon and make sure he wasn’t about to run into any nasty surprises. With the coast seemingly clear, he did something really fucking stupid and skylined himself as he ascended up to the open plain, and while it made him a prime target for practically anyone in or near the valley who wasn’t occupied by shooting something else or being shot at, it also gave him a clear view of the valley edges where the offending grunts were perched.

---

”Target. Re-engage.” The squad leader’s voice crackled through the shooter’s radio, barely intelligible due to the combination of the shitty headest in his helmet and the speaker’s Marian accent. A heat wave washed over them as a blue laser beam cut through the air mere feet above them, eliciting several curses loud enough to be heard without radios. He racked another round and fired again, the round bouncing off the Centurion’s shoulder.
“Miss, adjust left.”
“Ja, I can fucking zee that.” the shooter hissed, wisely keeping his microphone muted. Another shot, this time it looked on target, but a bead of sweat got into the shooter’s eye, forcing him to blink it away.
But boss man was silent. “Oh, zo now that I actually need it you decide to shut up? Wunderbar.” He looked away from his scope and to his left where the squad leader was laying. The man had half-raised himself up from prone, looking farther to their left, past the second squad. Was something moving there?
The squad leader’s unintelligible Marian scream was cut short when he simply disappeared in a flash of green light and a haze of evaporating snow. The shooter barely had time to process what he saw before he followed suit.

---

If they hadn’t known he was there, a salvo of three medium lasers striking the positions he could see would let them know. Those that hadn’t just become part of the atmosphere, that is. Combined with the rising pace, it was enough to instantly raise the cockpit temperature high enough that it was still warmer than before by a few degrees by the time the weapons were ready to fire again. Restricting himself to the two arm-mounted medium lasers, he could keep cool and far enough to make himself harder to hit as he ran back and forth along the edge of the landing site at full throttle, mopping up any infantry he could see. Just keep moving, you only have five and a half tons of armor.

But incoming enemy ‘Mechs were worrying, mainly because he couldn’t see them yet.”What contacts, how many, how far away, ETA?”

"Bastards are dug in like a Hainfield tick-lizard," Overkill scowled as another shot from a recoilless rifle whizzed past the cockpit of his Firestarter. "Infantry units in entrenched positions high up on tricky terrain, sure makes me wish we had a jump-capable 'Mech with some flamers or machine guns to-- oh wait, haha!"

Breaking formation, Remy charged his 'Mech forward, barely registering the loud metallic PANG as a shot from one of their field guns glanced his left shoulder. As the 'Mech's reactor surged, he felt a wave of heat wash over him-- Steph had warned him that some of the coolant pumps were on the fritz. Still, in a light 'Mech with nothing but short-range weapons, he needed to close the gap between himself and the enemy, and to do so fast.

Practically stomping on the control pedals, Remy triggered the Firestarter's jump jets, and again the cockpit became an oven. "Frackencrack, I'm gonna be goddamn deep-fried before we're done here," he said through gritted teeth as sweat began to pour down his face. Even working normally, jumping always cooked you a little, but it usually wasn't this literal.

Still, he didn't let up on the pedals, even as the heat grew harder and harder to stand. 200 feet was a solid height advantage, but the Firestarter's six Luxor Load-Lifters could propel the 35-tonner surprisingly far. The sales brochures all said the 'Mech had a jumping distance of 180 meters, but that was more accurate to its forward leap rather than its vertical. Going straight up put a lot more strain on the jets, but it proved to be enough.

Just as the heat was becoming unbearable, the top of Murder One's head crested the ridge, and Remy quickly cut the jets and used the 'Mech's hands to grab onto the ridgeline. Rocks cracked and threatened to give way, and all the while, he heard the pings and pangs of machine gun fire chewing into the armor on his arms and head, but after a few unsure moments, the Firestarter climbed its way up.

Remy couldn't help but flick the switch to his 'Mech's external speakers. "Attention, peckerwoods! You've got one chance to lay down your arms and surrender before--"

Remy's ultimatum was cut short by a loud boom and a hard impact that tossed him around in his command couch. One of the field guns-- a medium caliber towed autocannon-- had trained on him, catching him with a shell. Diagnostics indicated that shot had blasted off a little less than half of the armor on the left side of his torso.

With a vengeful glee, Overkill sneered. "Aww, hell. I was hopin' you'd do that."

While he wanted more than anything to cut loose with his flamers and wreak unholy hell on these mud-marchers, the sweltering heat inside his cockpit told him he still needed a little more time to cool off. Fortunately, the Firestarter had other ways of dealing with pesky infantry units. Switching to his third target-interlock circuit, he aimed the targeting reticle in the general area where the shot had came and held down the firing stud.

Murder One's pair of Deprus RF machine guns were all but useless against Battlemechs (fully armored ones, at least), but they were vicious against soft targets. Tracer rounds let him walk his fire up to the source of the autocannon fire.

Tufts of snow, shredded lichen and camo netting were thrown into the air from the impact of high-velocity lead, and Overkill's sneer grew when he saw a puff of red mist among the clouds of dust, followed by a second and a third. Remy didn't let up until he saw a series of small popping explosions, the sound and thudding tremors reaching him a split-second later-- a surefire sign that his fire had hit one one of their ammunition crates.

"Splash another gun battery!" he called back to the rest of the Lance. He couldn't celebrate long, though, as more gunfire from another emplacement whizzed past him. Even if he was loaded up with the right weapons for this part of the job, the Firestarter didn't have enough armor to stand there and take it. Like the fella in the Mongoose, he had to keep moving.

Some 200 meters away, he saw a flash from a rise in the canyon wall, and a few seconds later, the ground around him hurled upward, filling his vision with a spray of dirt and smoke and fire. Remy struggled to keep the 'Mech upright, both from the impact of the explosion and from the ground giving way under his feet. "Shit, that was close!" he hissed as he now saw the artillery piece that had nearly tagged him.

"Got a Thumper in sector Kilo-5," Remy reported to the Lance. "I wouldn't mind a little covering fire while I move in on the target."

Doing his best to serpentine, Overkill ducked and weaved Murder One to try and keep the Thumper gunners from drawing a bead on him as he approached. He could probably withstand the shrapnel from a nearby blast, but a direct hit could cost his 'Mech a limb or turn him into confetti.

At this range, the Thumper would have him dead to rights. If he could close the gap, though, they'd be all but helpless. All or nothing.

Looking at his heat gauge, he saw the 'Mech had cooled enough that he could finally bring his flamers to bear. And as the Thumper calibrated its aim, he felt a rush of adrenaline through is veins, and charged forward.

It really was a damn good thing he disdained frontline Mechs. The poor, stupid bastards up in front were already getting hammered, giving Jaromir plenty of time and opportunity to start drawing beads on targets. The people with anti-infantry weapons were already taking care of that little issue, which meant he'd be taking out the upcoming vehicles. Tanks were made of paper compared to Battlemechs, but a Large Laser was a Large Laser no matter what it was mounted on.

With his Trebuchet positioned in the rear of the lance, Jaromir started to line up his shots as the tanks came into view. One PPC shot crashed into the side armor of the Goblin that shot Fuka's Dragon, sloughing enough of its armor off that the AC/5 volley he fired immediately after outright cored it. Jaromir let out a low whistle as he started sighting his next target. Say what one will about the psychopaths in House Kurita, but they at least knew how to arm Mechs. The one extra heat sink in the 7K rendered its primary salvo heat-neutral, and a PPC with an AC/5 really wasn't a bad combination at all. This 7K damn well suited his likes, at least. He continued firing from his entrenched position, taking out a few more tanks before Remy's call for support came through.

"Acknowledged, repositioning." He replied easily over the comms, starting to shift his position to draw a bead on the Thumper. It'd start jacking his heat up, but he'd been running neutral long enough that it didn't matter. A few less autocannon shots would sort that out soon enough. From the bottom of the valley, he didn't have a decent enough sight line to really be able to draw an accurate bead on the Thumper, but at the very least, he'd be able to keep their heads down. "Starting covering fire, go, go, go!"

Jaromir opened up with the PPC, his first shot crashing into the canyon wall next to the Thumper. A click of his tongue in irritation. He adjusted his aim briefly, and fired again, mindful of his allied Firestarter's position and trying to not be the first one in the company to start a case of friendly fire.

@AndyC

The outline discomforted Hamazasp. A stationary Locust was scrap metal in waiting, especially when it possessed no far reaching equipment. His mount was equipped with sparingly little armor plating and only absorbed so much while motionless. Of the pilots present, his death was most probable. The crew's betting odds likely reflected that, though he wouldn't bother to check. Gambling was for those with assets to lose. Regardless, he had twenty minutes to make peace with the circumstances. He bore the same countenance as he climbed aboard, bade farewell to his spry mechanic, strapped in, and descended.

With landfall approaching, he identified two square buttons, respectively red and blue, each embedded in a sea of verdant light. Figuring those to launch the ignition, he pressed the former. He couldn't hear the engines turning over and so repressed it. His newfound layer of sweat proved the cockpit considerably warmer than his initial inspection. He punched the other button, and the water that accumulated on his person began to chill. Ah; those controlled the temperature. God bless the factory models. Already a mess, he murmured a brief prayer of gratitude that new units maintained functional air conditioning. He held onto the latter until the inner atmosphere was near freezing. He relished the cold; it kept him aware and awake. He'd squeeze every last joule before stray flak or errant debris would render the system inoperable. Doubtless the technicians would have larger priorities.

He found the actual startup and flipped it on. The familiar whir satisfied him. He inhaled and exhaled, perusing the book titles situated in the corner. They seemed properly fastened to withstand the upcoming shudders. A flurry of paper would be quite distracting. He retrieved his harmonica and played a string of notes. The reeds soothed him, calming himself on battle's eve. Thankfully, his microphone was muted; the preemptive melodies were his alone to enjoy.

The Centurion's rear soon filled his view, as per instructions. Stowing his instrument, the Taurian glanced around for maximum speed settings, hoping to cruise at a steady pace after his superior. Upon reflection, he gave up the search. Sloth was not a trait he desired, and he didn't want to rediscover and adjust that control during combat. These musings culminated into the Ayrshire thumping up to the commander's backside, pausing for a couple seconds for his leader to stomp ahead, and repeating. The first salvos flew once he'd completed a few cycles.

The seemingly contradictory orders of "follow from a distance" and now "spread out" meant that Hamazasp's cover vanished almost instantly. It was perhaps a perfect excuse to break formation and charge the adversary point blank. Nonetheless, he understood the importance of team cohesion. He tried to imitate his boss's jagged maneuvers, a difficult task with different velocities and skill levels. His joystick's trigger was never pulled, as his targets in either direction or range were all friendly. He'd be Ulrik's obedient lapdog as duty necessitated.

He was still miffed, of course, that his Firestarter compatriot blatantly discarded that post and rushed the enemy. Sulser detected a trace of jealousy but mostly repugnance within his own disapproval. He ultimately concluded that the flamer wasn't reliable. Conversely, as predicted, Jaromir's supportive fire confirmed trustworthiness. Would that he himself could mimic the assistance.

His unblemished hull was probably a testament to its current lack of threat. The retired farmer, growing bored on the battlefield, activated his communications. "Sir Commander, my vehicle is ineffective from behind you. Permission to engage independently in close quarters?" It had the energy of a rookie eagerly exclaiming "Put me in, Coach!", but the loquaciousness mitigated the effect somewhat.

Fuka had rebelled against her family and her homeland, rejected their patriotic dogma in favor of pure militarism. They spoke of honor and courage and loyalty, trying to hide a lust for power behind sentimentality. They would never refer to it as such of course, such a soft word did not suit the mighty Combine, but that's exactly what it was.

Sentimentality. Clinging to a way of life that was ancient before the DC even existed. Fuka found it quaintly amusing now that she was removed from it, but it had been enraging when it had controlled her life.

And yet, despite her drastic efforts to escape the Combine's clutches, she found herself succumbing to that same sin: sentimentality. She hadn't just enjoyed herself on the battlefield, she had identified herself by it. She was a pilot damn it, and a pilot without a war to fight was a whetstone without a knife. She craved purpose, a flight to fight for, and paychecks to covet!

Strapping into the Dragon was like coming home, the samurai beaming brightly as she drummed her fingers against the controls. The weapons were hot and the armor was solid, the bossman's warning coming in through the comms. Fuka refrained from replying, simply clinging to her support straps as the lander clattered to a stop.

An uphill charge straight into enemy fire wasn't exactly an easy task, but it was probably the one she was best suited for. Fuka had many flaws but a lack of self-awareness wasn't one of them. The fancy flanking maneuvers and tactical scouting were best left to more nimble folks, her lead foot would stay right in the thick of it.

The valley was beautiful in its cold hostility, and had she been given more time Fuka would have gladly sat down to take in the view. But instead of a sightseeing tour, she got an ambush, a wave of antiquated war machines opening up on her little lance.

"Moving!"

A manic glee had entered her voice at the show of violence, her Dragon lumbering forward at speed. As long as she kept in a straight line she could just about manage to move without falling on her ass, but it didn't leave her a lot of room for error. As she charged up towards the front one of the bastard Goblins sighted in, a burst of gamma rays shearing off some of her armor in a spray of slag.

Shit.

It wasn't a critical blow, the Right Torse was still relatively intact, but she wanted to keep the stress testing to a minimum. The tank responsible was reduced to scrap before she could turn her guns on it, Fuka making a note to thank Jaromir as she looked for a convenient object of ire.

An Edgar presented itself at an inopportune moment, Fuka raising her autocannon and aiming for its cockpit. At that range she barely needed the targeting system, cold eyes were more than enough to measure her shot. A squeeze of the trigger sent a shell straight through the viewport, all that "reinforced" glass doing nothing to stop the round from ripping it apart.

Then it was on the next. The Dragon turned to get a better angle at one of those nasty little Goblins, Fuka's second shot smashing through the treads. Good hit, no kill.

"Tell me if we're pushing up boss, I'm doing alright."

The tear of lasers capacitors discharging. The heavy thunk of autocannons. And the screeching wail of missiles. Tempting sounds. Distracting sounds. But Zohra would not be distracted. She had a role to play. She had a task. The left flank was hers to watch. Perching above the valley, she kept a constant move, a stationary light mech was a dead light mech.

Zohra wasted no time moving to secure the left flank. The sounds of shooting were a tempting distraction, but she had task. Screening for any more pirates was the priority. Infantry was unwelcome. Tanks even more so. Expected as enemy forces were. Incoming BattleMech signatures presented a far worse threat. Even pirates could be dangerous when they pinned you down with infantry and combat vehicles. A stray Autocannon round or SRM was all it took to leave the world as a fine red mist.

The infantry that popped out of cover to fire a brace almost caught Zohra unaware. But they were too eager, perhaps afraid. They were too greedy. The range was far. Their weapons clearly dated. And a batch of missiles sailed long, passing far above the top of her BattleMech. Zohra didn't hesitate. She didn't want to think. And she didn't want to see. Green beams arced out from the scorching the ground as she swept the deadly right arm of the RVN-2X precisely across the uncovered trenches still smouldering with smoke from the fired missiles.

There was no to time to wait and to observe. Instead Zohra firewalled her throttle, sending the Raven stomping over what remained of the infantry squad. Swinging wide, she tried not to think about anyone unfortunate enough to be alive beneath her before the claws of the BattleMech came thundering down into the dirt.

Shifting forwards, Zohra kept her eyes forward across the ridge, checking her sensors with each shuddering step of the running Raven. She had to keep up with the lance, if only in parallel. Across the valley she could see that Karel was busy. A J. Edgar moved rapidly beneath her. It didn't seem to see her. It was focused on the Dragon. Zohra stopped for only a moment, drawing a deep breath, and squeezing the trigger on her left control stick.

Brilliant blue cut through the air, lancing through the armor just below the cockpit of the nimble craft as raced towards her lancemates. Zohra had only to wait as the combat vehicle floated helplessly through her sights, the large laser scorching along until it rested over the engines. The J. Edgar shook with smoke and then burst into sad flames as the fusion reactor faded. The smell of burnt ozone filling Zohra's cockpit, but she did not linger. Many would die. Many would die soon enough and she only hoped she would not be one of them.

"Left flank, still clear! Keeping pace with you, Commander," Zohra said, keying her comms.