"Ohhh-ho-ho, it's my lucky day," Remy said as the sky filled with small plumes of enemy jump infantry. "You folks take care of the big guy; I'll take crowd control."

He turned his attention away from the hulking figure of the Hunchback and towards the incoming soft targets. As much as his instincts screamed at him to charge headlong at the larger brawler and duke it out, that all came from his years piloting heavier 'Mechs. He knew damn well a Firestarter didn't have the armor or the firepower to trade blows with anything but other light 'Mechs, and his only real hope of doing damage against the Hunchback would have been to get a lucky shot through an opening in the armor. Maybe if it was one of the 'Swayback' variants loaded up with lasers he could play hell with its heat, but against the standard model, he'd most likely just get on its nerves.

That jump infantry, on the other hand, was in for the shortest-longest day of their lives.

"Come to Papa, you stupid sonsabitches!" He shouted over his 'Mech's internal speakers as he charged headlong towards his unfortunate targets. He was still running hot after unloading his weapons into the now scrapped Jenner, so as much as it pained him to have to hold something back, he took aim at one of the incoming Rippers and fired his Medium Lasers.

The first Laser tagged the incoming VTOL in the rotor, turning to superheated slag the mechanism that kept the transport airborne. Immediately, the Ripper began to roll hard to one side, causing the second Laser to miss, but by then the VTOL's fate was sealed. As the Ripper careened headlong towards its doom, Remy switched to his next Target-Interlock Circuit, triggering his Machine Guns into the group of jump infantry that had just disembarked.

If those mud-marchers were able to get to the ground and start firing from cover-- or worse, get on his 'Mech or one of his lance-mates-- then they'd be a bastard and a half to deal with. In the air, though, they were such easy pickings that it hardly seemed fair.

Hot lead filled the sky, and Remy sneered as he saw some of those jump plumes snuff out with puffs of red. The Firestarter's .50 caliber machine guns were piddling against 'Mechs, but there wasn't any armor in all the Inner Sphere that could protect an infantry trooper from a hit. Bullets punched gory tunnels through the bodies of unlucky troopers, blasting off limbs and popping the head of one soldier like an overripe melon.

He'd heard of Battlemechs referred to from time to time as "walking war crimes," and Remy usually thought that was little more than tough-talk from overzealous Mechwarrior enthusiasts. You could put that label on just about anything capable of moving and shooting. His Firestarter, on the other hand, seemed like it was purpose-built for terrorizing anyone unlucky enough to be caught out in the open. And as if to drive that point home, he triggered his primary Target-Interlock-Circuit, activating the weapons that gave the 'Mech its name.

Not wanting to cook himself completely, Remy only let loose with two of his four Flamers, but even that was plenty. One of the jets of plasma cut a swath straight through a tight grouping of troops, the poor souls frying before they even had a chance to fight back. The other Flamer caught only about half as many, but he'd effectively wiped out a whole platoon of jump troopers before they'd hit the ground.

"Hoooo-eee!" he let out a triumphant whoop as the air around him filled with the screams of dying men, right around the time the Ripper he had tagged finally slammed into one of the ferrocrete walls of the enemy compound, erupting into a dirty-orange fireball with the impact. "How do you fellas like your infantry: regular, or extra-crispy?!"

Perhaps the pleasantest aspect of the LCT-1V, besides zipping across the battlefield immune to targeting, was its utter inability to overheat. As Hamazasp fell into line with the other 'Mechs, he didn't fret his windshield's fogging but instead activated his air conditioning towards a cozy hearth. His glass windows tinted from slightly blurry to an opaque milky white. "Confound it!" Shaking his noggin, he halted his movement, lowered the temperature to its deepest setting, and resumed. He'd tolerate the frigidity fine enough.

He trekked directly behind Ulrik's Centurion, which physically blocked his viewport. He only detected the newfound enemy Medium class via his terminal, even after the translucence dissipated. He glanced sideways to see Karel's 'Mech storm the right flank, Zohra on his tail. "The left flank's mine for capture," he relayed, teeth chattering as he spoke. Still unaccustomed to the control network, he reared his Locust around his commander.

He emerged at the front to a busy view: four helicopters above him, a Hunchback beyond him, infantry before him, and his comrade's fiery inferno blasted in his general direction. Just one visage unnerved the Taurian. Ants: the most fearsome of arthropods. They lack the wasp's sting, the spider's venom, and the mosquito's incessant whir. Those frights fade when an apparently dirty floor unexpectedly moves. Quantity had a quality unto itself.

Instinctively, he triggered his dual machine guns upon the troopers. Largely, he was startled. He wouldn't roast such helpless creatures willingly. As his ammunition emptied into the masses, he attempted to justify his own actions. Sulser recognized their potential; he had slept with an ant queen. This horde wouldn't divert its course through reasoning or gentle guidance, which he obviously would've elected were it feasible. That explanation would mollify his recently acquired stowaways come bedtime, yes?

Having done a reasonably decent job both at placating his conscience and genociding the hapless insects, he gazed upwards. Those aircraft were getting away Scot free. He must rectify that error. He redirected his M Laser and casually pressed a button. Shot, hit, kill. He reactivated his comms. "Might I obtain assistance with those VTOLs?" he shivered.

For an ambush, things were going well. Suspiciously well. Trained by paranoid officers and forged in the lames of the 4th Succession War, Ulrik was no stranger to an ambush, and yet the hairs on his arm stood up as he watched the Hunchback get scorched by weapon fire from just about every member of his team, and despite that keep charging towards them as if it was nothing. Kept charging towards him, having already positioned himself between Fuka's injured Dragon and the menacing Hunchback. "Stupid idea Ulrik..." He muttered to himself, but the fact of the matter was that he didn't want to lose a Dragon, or worse, a pilot in the first mission. He made sure to read everyone's reports several times before they boarded the Ankhanne, and he knew Fuka was a great shot, but a terrible pilot. If the Hunchback got to him, chances are she'd be ripped to shreds before the rest of the lance could get through it's armor to save her.

No, that's why he was up in the front. The Gladiator was an equally menacing brawler in the same weight class as the Hunchback, and as long as he could keep it tied down without taking an AC 20 to the cockpit, the rest of his lance should melt the enemy before it could do too much damage.

His eyes darted across his scenner as the Huncback approach: 100 meters. Then 80. 60. A slow mech or not, it had waited until they were close enough to where it could reliably immobilize someone and then charge them. Smart. Too bad they targeted the Dragon: they would hopefully soon find out how big of a mistake they've made. Squeezing the trigger to unleash a bolt of bright blue laser fire towards the Hunchback, the Large Laser hummed angrily and managed to strike exactly where he had wanted: like a scalpel it had cut a gaping hole through the armor plates of the Left Torso on the Hunchback, exposing the internals where the armor for it's monstrous gun was located.

Clearly not impressed by this, the enemy Hunchback returned fire, and it's AC/20 once more threw up a cloud of dust all around the mech, as the muzzle flash temporarily blinded Ulrik's scanner. A moment later his mech jolted and shook, as warning lights began to flash and his VA babbled warnings about a hull breach. "Fuck..." The impact was enough to give him a small whiplash, and it took a few seconds for him to assess the damage: the shell had torn right through his Centurion's Right Torso, leaving a nasty wound on it. Thankfully, there wasn't anything too important there: only Heat Sinks, which whilst annoying when lost in battle for an energy boat like his mech, weren't too hard or expensive to replace in a mechbay. Far too close for an LRM return fire now, all Ulrik could do was attempt to land a salvo of Medium Lasers on the Hunchback before it crashed into him. With a green flash, Ulrik aimed to finish off the mech once and for all, but with the damage he had just suffered still straining his Gyro, they just barely missed: instead tearing up the Center Torso of the Hunchback. For a moment the damage wasn't obvious to Ulrik, but then a bright blue flash emerged from the hole he had just torn, telling him that he had managed to hit something important. The Hunchback's stride faltered, but at this point it was so close already that it didn't really matter.

Moments later the metal beasts clashed, arms locked as the two brawlers tried to gain the upper hand and blast each other in the process. There was precious little time before the AC/20 would fire again, and Ulrik tried his best to stay away from the barrel of the weapon. "Quick, shoot him now! I'll keep him in place!" He shouted into his comms, focused on trying to keep the Hunchback in the same position so that the rest of his lance could take potshots at it.

At the same time, the remaining transport that had witnessed their squadronmates get ripped apart by laser and SRM fire decided that their lives were not worth it, and made a hasty retreat towards the base, dipping below the edge of the crater to break line of sights. The remaining jump troopers weren't so frightened however: if anything, witnessing their allies get turned into fine red mist and crispy chunks by the Firestarter made them much, much more angry. Now that they had time to assess the battlefield, they began to zip across the battlefield with their jetpacks, hitting them nearly impossible as they targeted the lance below them: before long, a good number of them had clung onto the Firestarter's back, and began to use Remi's machine as a firing platform as they peppered the other mechs with laser fire. At the same time, they began to plant explosive charges on it's back: soon enough, they could blow a hole right through the machine if they weren't stopped.

The rest, realizing that their Hunchback was their only real shot at winning, swarmed Alvin and Jaromir's mech: taking out the guns would do them good. 3 Troopers landed on Alvin, and 4 on Jaromir's, one clinging to their cockpits to obscure their vising, laser rifles unloading into the thick glass window for more confusion. At the same time, the rest of the soldiers began to plant charges of their own onto the backs and head of the mechs: though not swarmed nearly as much as the Firestarter, they would surely do a great deal of damage, or even cripple the respective mechs if they weren't dealt with in time.

---

The long awaited GM post of 2024 :)

There are two important gimmicks for this encounter: When rolling to hit either the Hunchie, or any of the troopers, rolling ANYTHING below their to-hit, except for a crit, causes you to hit the mech they are attached to. This means back armor for most, but in case you attempt to hit the ones clinging to Jaromir or Alvin's cockpit, it would be a Head hit, so watch out.

These two can attempt to swat them off, which means spending your "attacks" on removing them. Alternatively, you can shoot at anything else, but you'll take 2 damage to your head, and you have a -3 to hit any other target.

As a qiqck recap, the Hunchie has both the CT and ammo exposed, and both legs are below half armor: there's a chance it goes critical and you get no salvage, but it might be worth fishing for a Gyro hit too, if you're feeling lucky.

Sorry for the wait once more, I feel like I say this every time, but I think we've really just become a slow burner RP haha

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

Alvin Davion

"I am never disrespecting good infantry again," Alvin said as he shot the H-4K (sometimes called the Hermes-III)'s two large lasers at the Hunchback's legs, relying on someone else to fire at the Jump Troopers and the demolition charges they were setting. As the Hunchback's legs were hit and molten metal began to slough off from some of the myomer, causing it to buckle under its weight, he knew that the battle was essentially won unless the demo charges were set off, and that was not going to happen as long as Jaromir, Remy, and Hamazap shot at the Jump Troopers.

Speaking of which...

"We should recruit a support battalion of our own Jump Troopers if we make it big," the young man spoke up over comms. "If they can annoy us, they can annoy our foes. Now, can someone swat these pests?"

This day started bad and went worse, but now there was a moment that made it all worth it. Shame he could find only a few words for it, but it seemed as though there was a future for him in this outfit after all. That, and he got the Hunchback - Fuka's next shots may finish it off, but it was his own that made it a non-threat.

He can live with that, he supposed.

The remaining VTOLs were fucking off, finally, but the squishy troops they had brought with them were still a problem. There was nothing Fuka could do about them without flamers, or at least a few machine guns. Perhaps the techies back onboard the Ankhanne could pull a couple out of mothballs, solder them onto the Dragon's shoulders or something?

A thought for another, less hectic day. The here and now was occupied by slippery little rebel-pirates and their Hunchbacked comrade, Fuka gladly stepping back to let her commander tangle with the brute. She was relatively safe for the moment, neither wrapped up in a wrestling match nor being clambered on by demo charge-toting flyboys, giving the space she needed to reassess the situation.

Jaromir: Potentially about to explode, nothing she could do. Alvin: also about to explode, no big loss. The commander: about to be force-fed two hundred millimeters of explosive pain, but in doing so would sacrifice himself to win the battle. The Large Laser of his had scythed right through the Hunchback's plating, exposing the internals to the frigid air. Fuka was no mechanic, but she knew enough about mechs to know what she was looking at.

"I'm going for the engine and the gyro; someone save our friends from being boarded."

Fuka hobbled herself to the side to get an angle, her already poor piloting hindered by the damage to the Dragon's leg. No matter, one was enough to keep her standing. She aimed, she breathed, she squeezed the triggers-

The crack of autocannon fire merged with the sizzling hiss of a laser beam, the Hunchback's vitals receiving a direct blast even as the Slave tried to cut it off at the knees.

"It's on the ropes!"

One second, Jaromir was lining up a shot on the damaged Hunchback to try to finish it off before it could do any more damage with its hellaciously large autocannon. The next, four fucking jump troopers somehow mounted his Mech and were in the process of planting detpacks on it.

"我操!" Jaromir screamed in frustration as his desperate attempts to get the little shits off his Mech's back and head didn't take, the goddamn pirates proving to have stronger grips and bigger balls than he'd given them credit for. He continued to try to swat them off to little avail, scowling as he slammed the comms activation in his cockpit.

"Pinned down by jump infantry, unable to fire! Requesting backup if possible!" He wasn't stupid enough to not recognize the situation, of course. The Hunchback was still the biggest threat overall. That left the matter up to him for the time being. A quick, worried look at the damage readout. Fortunately, none of them were targeting the torso where he'd already taken damage. Head was a problem, the asshat in his face would definitely kill him if he broke through the cockpit. The back... slightly less so. Sure, the plating there was thinner and three detonations would probably hit something vital. One or two? He could still make it, probably.

The emergency eject button was always an option. He'd hit it before, and he'd hit it again. Losing a Mech he actually liked to use would blow, but if they won, there was still the chance to salvage it. And besides, better to lose a Mech than to die. As far as he remembered, there was still a perfectly usable Panther back in the Dropship.

Nonetheless, Jaromir redoubled his efforts to swat the persistent bastards off for the time being. He wasn't quite out of the fight yet.

Routing VTOLS made an alright situation even better, and with the Hunchback was running out of rope, Karel had a few seconds to look around, making sure there were no more surprises coming before turning to address the biggest problem on the board. ”I got you, kid, hold my beer.” Karel replied to Alvin’s request for pest control, prioritizing the two large lasers on the Hermes over the PPC and an AC/5 Jaromír’s Trebuchet carried. Jumpers were no joke, and although Alvin could get rid of the one on his windshield in a pinch, the ones on the back not so much, marking them as a priority.

Stomping up behind the Hermes like a 25 ton can of bug spray, the first jump trooper only realized something was up when he woke up on Satan’s porch. The other two were definitely alerted by the Hermes shuddering slightly as the Mad Goose practically gave it a pat on the back, enough for the second one to notice the shadow of a Mongoose’s hand that came over her before she, too, had her life subscription canceled and life insurance activated. The third one tried to lift off and run, only to get spiked into the ground like a volleyball. The day’s frustration could be seen in the Mongoose’s strikes, as if each of the sorry bastards was somehow responsible for Karel’s misfortunes. Double-checking the back of the Hermes to make sure no charges were left, Karel doubled back around, lining up a strike sideways to get the last guy off without splattering Alvin’s windshield with pirate pate. No one needed to see that shit. ”You’re clear, might need a hose down and a lick of paint though. I’d like my beer back.”

Hamazasp was grateful to avoid... He attempted to designate the predicament that befell his comrades. It wasn't quite "nuisance," as explosives too well placed could rip a head from its chassis, dealing a fatal blow to the sorry sap inside. And yet that chance was too minimal for the moniker "tragedy," or even "threat." He settled on "kerfuffle." Yes. Sulser had been fortunately spared these kerfuffles. He was not, however, immune to decision making.

His mind ruled out the Hunchback nigh instantly. Squabbles amongst the bulkier classes of 'Mechs were best kept insular. Between Alvin's then Jaromir's requests for assistance, he'd personally fraternized more with the latter pilot, who despite the gruff exterior was a preferable conversationalist to Fuka.

He rotated his vehicle but hesitated just before pulling the trigger. A miss would greatly weaken their already established professional and filial relationships. Zhu had questioned Sulser's training prior, and the Taurian was loath to remove all doubt of incompetence. Perhaps it was diplomatically safer to utilize Alvin for target practice. What fortune that the favorable tides of battle allowed him time to contemplate such quandaries.

Then again, if Hamazasp's aim was poor enough, Jaromir wouldn't be around to bear a grudge, would he?

The Mongoose thankfully tilted the Locust's election towards his former comrade. "Mark on the Trebuchet. Hold still." He clenched his index finger, then pressed his thumb. Lucky shots; total annihilation of the boarders to be. He'd expected to strike the Trebuchet's cockpit at least once. He felt postmature, unearned guilt over that reflection. "Thank you for your cooperation."

Ulrik never fancied himself a betting man. Gambling was the luxury of those who didn't wager their lives every day on the battlefield, a stake he wasn't too fancy on putting into the pool. But right about now, if he was a betting man, he'd probably go all-in and hope to go big or go home.

"Can't say no to such a pretty salvage, can I?"

Musing to himself as his cockpit lit up like a Disco from the barrage of friendly lasers hitting the Hunchback, and soon enough the cool blue hue of radiating coolant and an angry fusion engine also joined the mix as he stared through a person-sized hole into the innards of the Hunchback. One more hit and he would've been turned into nuclear paste along with the Hunchback in a glorious reactor meltdown, but this precarious situation gave him an opening. He could feel the strength of the Hunchback quickly seeping away as the myomer bundles in the mech bundled up from heat, and power fluctuations caused all sorts of systems malfunctions. Even though the cockpit window of the pirate mech was several layers of armored glass tinted a deep jet black: it wasn't hard to imagine what was going on inside: warnings blaring, sparks flying from consoles, and incessant heat that leaves your skin red and peeling for weeks to come.

There wasn't much any mechwarriors could do in this situation, and Ulrik fancied that only some crazy Northwind Highlander or cold blooded Wolf's Dragoons pilot could weasel their way out of this situation. And though he'd seen mechs in way worse condition fighting in significantly more intense battles during the last Succession Wars, he wouldn't put his money on some pirate console jockey.

He had already readied one of the deadly metal fists of his Centurion to smash into the exposed internals of the Hunchback, aiming to deliver a killing blow and finally gut this dead mech, but probably sensing his imminent demise and going through the same things in their mind as Ulrik, the Centurion's Betty chimed into his ears with soothing words: "Ejection Detected"

FWOOOOOSH-

A small pop, a wriggle, and then the mech he was grappling fell limp in his hold as he watched the cockpit windows burst open and the enemy pilot eject from his doomed mech. Good choice. With the Hunchback dealt with and its pilot on a ballistic trajectory, he let go of the crippled mech and turned his attention towards the rest of his lance to help them: only to find that amidst the chaos of the brawl, they had cleaned up most of the troopers who had attempted to assault them. He made a mental note to commend the team on their steadfast presence: he knew plenty of mechwarriors who would've locked up in fear when assaulted from multiple directions. Then again, his pilots must've been at least a little crazy if they became mercenaries.

"Hunchback down, it seems like that's all they had! Run a systems check and regroup on me." The radio hissed as he closed comms and quickly panned around the battlefield: it seems like all the enemy forces were either defeated or on the run. The Hunchback's pilot crash landed about a hundred meters away off their position beyond the canyon's edge, and the buzzing of the VTOLs was long gone. All that remained were the few unlucky infantry still on the Firestarter, but Ulrik was sure that Remy could take care of them with ease.

Having encountered two ambushes on their very first mission, these new pilots were doing surprisingly well. A quick glance at the armor piercing shell still embedded in his cockpit from the first shot fired after landing, Ulrik knew he had to have it framed once they returned to the Ankhanne. For good luck. God knows they needed it, but maybe, just maybe, they can all survive long enough to see what will become of Rasalhague.

---

Not much happening this post, time for everyone to catch their breath, examine their wounds, and then we're on to see what's inside the mysterious compound. First story arc is almost over :)

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

Alvin Davion

He had performed admirably, Alvin thought as he followed Ulrik's instructions, running a systems check and then running back to his Captain's side as he remarked, "It seems we made it; thanks for leading us well, Captain. I must admit that I judged you only by your hatred for the FedSuns and not your actual... everything else. Here's hoping the compound does contain something of value - If those pirates turn out to be human traffickers or organ smugglers, I'm taking back everything I said about trying to spare them."

They actually had a future. They actually had a future. As his H-4K gathered with the others and Ulrik, Alvin brought up one more topic, "So, now that we've established ourselves as a viable outfit, we should pre-emptively make sure from early on that we do not acquire too many civilians before we get a landhold of our own or an HQ in a hub world. There was this mid-sized company called G*w*in's Green Knights - One of my inspirations for joining a Merc Group if I can share that - that had their civilians captured four years ago during a rebellion on a planet they were garrison duty on and had to spend a lot of time and effort on an epic campaign to get them back... I don't recall the outcome, though."

For Fuka's inevitable ridicule, Alvin had a response she cannot simply dismiss or ignore - Play the sound of nails scratching a primitive blackboard to drown out what nonsense she was going to say, then add, "Sorry for annoying you and the other members of this group again, Captain; just hyped up about our group's prospects and ability to make it despite everything going against us..."

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

"No damage, all systems nominal, and nothing on my sensors," Zohra reported, keeping her eyes glued on the displays feeding from the powerful sensors of her Raven. She felt a pang of guilt, noticing the battered BattleMechs of some of her lance mates. Her Raven had been untouched as it flitted around the edges of the battlefield. She had been lucky. Ulrik had been wise to have her keep an eye open on their flank. Shooting at range had been a fruitful endeavor. She had whittled down the armor of the enemy BattleMechs. Armor taken from an enemy at no cost was always an excellent trade. It had kept her safe. At least until the battle became desperate and even then she had been lucky. In the haste of battle she had

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she whispered a quiet prayer, thankful to be alive and grateful that no one from her lance had been lost. It was hard to feel bad for the pirates, but she felt some sympathy, the sort of sympathy one felt for the dead, even if they likely had not been very good.

Zohra wasn’t sure what mercenary unit Alvin was talking about, but she hoped they had made it. She preferred happy endings. Mercenaries needed all the luck they could gather. The ragtag band of mercenaries that she found herself in, the game souls willing to gamble on the offer of the Rasalhagians were no exception. She wasn't sure if luck could be passed on from one mercenary outfit to another, but she sure hoped so.

Karel watched the Hunchback’s demise and its pilot’s ejection, tracing the flight path of the seat with his crosshairs. Nah. Pirate or not, there were boundaries better untested. Not like it was any mercy, his buddies in the VTOLs had already run away and it would most likely be a while before they’d dare venture back here, too long for the poor sod to make it in these conditions. ”Hope you’ve got a sidearm on you, guy.” The MechWarrior mused to himself. Puking one’s guts out while going red from radiation buns was not a good way to shuffle off this mortal coil.

He did a quick check, no alarms blaring, nothing feeling off, the row of ‘Really Bad Lights’ along one side of the panel likewise remaining dim. ”Not a scratch on the Mongoose, nothing on the scope.” He reported. Good, keeping this thing in good shape for as long as possible would make life easy for their quartermaster and it would keep him away from the Urbanmech and the rest of the assorted wrecks their ‘Mech Bay had been graced - cursed - with.

Looking over the company, it looked like the commander had taken the brunt of it. It was always nice to see when the commander was leading from the front instead of playing tail end charlie. He waited to see if Firestarter guy asked for help or not, moving to help him out if so and otherwise taking up his post at the formation’s right flank again.

Hamazasp's machine gun shots turned the jump troopers on Jaromir's Trenchbucket into bloody paste, and the ex-Capellan let out a sigh of relief. Alright, he wasn't giving that guy any shit again. That, and he really should look into trying to replace the SRM-2 on this thing with a pair of small lasers or something. Wasn't as if he was using the former much, if at all.

"Appreciate the save, Sulser. Drinks are on me when we get back."

Jaromir busied himself with raising his Trebuchet's arm to wipe the blood off the cockpit view as Alvin went on his little spiel, and he resisted the urge to sigh.

"Why don't we talk about this after we're out of the field? Not done until we're back in the DropShip." Was the most polite way he could put it. Taking out a bunch of pirates in shitbox Mechs wasn't any indicator of future success. Considering most merc companies didn't last past the half year mark, one or two engagements meant nothing. Hell, one could argue that a few successful missions starting off caused a lot of mercs to get cocky and bite off more than they could chew with the next job, thinking they were the next Highlanders or Dragoons.

"Returning to position. Awaiting further orders, Boss."

"You stupid little--get offa me!" Remy snarled inside his cockpit as a det-pack went off underneath his Mech's right arm. The infantry trooper hadn't positioned it well enough to damage the actuator, so it did little more than blast off a few pocks of armor, but the fact that these ground-pounders were even on him in the first place chapped his ass something fierce. And it wasn't exactly a party on his stomach, either.

Twisting the Firestarter left and right, rapidly throwing the Mech's throttle from full-speed to full-reverse, swatting across the 35-tonner's chassis with his arms, Remy tried to shake the jump-troopers off. While they were like fish in a barrel during their initial descent, rooting the rest of them out had been a lot more difficult, as they'd gotten into cover and a few had managed to outflank him. If he'd been a more dedicated Light 'Mech jock, he probably would've been able to avoid the trouble, and could've used the Firestarter's speed and agility to put himself into a better position. But Murder One had always been a heavier girl in all of her past lives. He was used to wading into the thick of it and letting his guns and armor do the work.

Still, no time like the present to learn some new tricks.

Bracing himself from within his cockpit, Remy deliberately threw the Firestarter backwards, his stomach lurching up into his throat as the 'Mech toppled over onto its back. On impact, he was thrown hard against his command couch, and alarms began blaring, but as soon as he confirmed none of his bones were broken, he grinned. Any poor bastard clinging onto the Murder One's back would've been squashed flat.

Torquing hard on the control sticks and straining the Mech's gyro, he was able to get his Firestarter to roll over onto its front, crushing more troopers under its weight. 35 tons wasn't much mass to throw against another Battlemech, but against an 80kg human being, it might as well have been the weight of the planet.

Using the Mech's arms to push itself up and get its legs underneath it, Remy got Murder One back to a standing position and began looking for any survivors. Sure enough, a single infantryman was trying to crawl away from him, dragging himself by one good arm while his mangled legs hung limply.

"Lucky little bastard, surviving that," Overkill said over his external speakers, before pointing the arm-mounted Flamers at him. "Well....maybe not that lucky..."

With a loud FWOOSH and another sharp spike of heat inside the cockpit, it was done. "All clear, boss," he chimed in to the rest of the lance.

Remy looked at the aftermath of the battle, and couldn't help but wonder what the hell these pirates thought was so damned valuable to be worth getting wiped out like that. Most of the pirates he'd ever encountered weren't exactly the type to stick around for a fair fight, much less one against an overwhelming force. Not just that, but they had a lot more hardware than expected- artillery, jump troopers, even a damn Hunchback. He was pretty fairly convinced these guys had more going on than your average pirate band.

On the other hand, they'd also tried to use infantry to engage a Firestarter, and Remy couldn't have imagined a stupider move, so maybe he was giving them too much credit.

Well, that had been wonderfully exciting. A few Locusts and some worthless ground vehicles, some pain in the ass VTOLs and big mean Hunchback all thrown together in a big ugly mess of a battle, metal and lasers and fire chewing up the scenery so that the desolate moon was in even worse shape than it was upon their arrival. There was a hole in the Dragon's leg which the neurohelm was kindly reminding her of by giving her a vicious migraine, but hey she was still alive!

That was more than could be said of the poor morons Overkill was trying to turn to paste.

There was some sort of annoying buzz coming through the comms, the damage that caused it somehow not coming up on any readout. Fuka was about to raise her voice in concern before she realized it wasn't neurological damage from the helmet but just Alvin running his stupid mouth for the sake of listening to his drool splatter about the cockpit. Why he felt the need to yammer about an unrelated company on an unrelated mission in circumstances that didn't match any of theirs, Fuka couldn't say. All she could do was give an appreciative cough into the comms when Jaromir beat her to the punch, his gentle reminder to shut the fuck up much nicer than what she had been planning.

"I'm alive, but my right leg's still busted; I'm not going anywhere with any speed."

She was just grateful it hadn't been the cockpit; she refused to die before the slave.

"Not sure if you want me at the front still in this shape, but I can manage if needed.

The denouement yielded Hamazasp opportunities to fiddle with his control system's less vital aspects. The Locust's fourth millennium user interface bore similarities to that of his previous Kurita Spider, but 'Mech mastery lay in exploitation of the finer details. For example, en route to diagnostics, he stumbled onto graphical settings that altered the monitor's color. While the option to flood his cockpit with patriotic Rasalhague blue was tempting, he settled for a cozy autumn red, then decimated the luminosity to spare his vision. He pressed the big green "Run Systems Tests" button.

He reclined backward and beheld the ceiling. A sudden urge compelled him to stretch and prod it with an index finger. Did he forget something? Yes, his comrade in arms had hailed him. He activated his communications. "I'm a teetotaler, but thank you for the offer, Jaromir." Sulser released the trigger. Upon reflection, that quirk did preclude him from calling Ulrik Mäkinen anything other than "Sir" or "Commander." The privilege of casual reference wasn't worth drinking a couple of subpar Swedish beers, anyway.

He parsed the (now dimly lit) benchmark for discrepancies against his general knowledge of light 'Mechs. He found one. Ought he to inform his superior? It was no grave issue, but minor issues magnify in the blur of combat. Sigrid's bound to discover then report it to Chief Technician Elena, Ulrik's colossal Slav mistress. Before long he'd be summoned to the commander's office to defend his omission. Beyond that, though, he should tell on principle. "I apologize, Sir Commander. There's a slight warp to my CT armor, likely from laser damage. The internals are fine, but I believe the pristine paint job is compromised." His voice revealed no hint of sarcasm or levity. His recklessness would surely disappoint Sigrid.

As the dust began to finally settle over the battlefield and deposited on the mechs as a thin grey layer, the sound of gunfire and laser discharges finally died down. Now Ulrik found himself left with this own thoughts, the sound of blood rushing in his veins, and the quick reports from his pilots. The black vignette of adrenaline that had obscured so much of his vision as he faced down the barrel of an AC 20 slowly faded away, and he could finally, finally let out a deep sigh that he had been cradling this entire fight in his chest. It was almost unbelievable that they didn't lose even a single mech: the worst injury was Fuka's Dragon, and though damaged it could still stand on it's two legs. If this was the Succession Wars... A single drop of sweat ran down his temple, dragging a painful line across his skin. His glove creaked loudly as his fingers tightened their grip on the joystick. A single exasperated breath as his eyes darted across the sensor readouts.

THUNK

Hitting the side of his neurohelmet with a hearty slap, Ulrik dragged himself back into reality, kicking and screaming if he had to. No point in dwelling on the past. He cleared his throat as the silent static of his comrade's reports came back into focus, each word soon enough as clear as daylight.

Clearing his throat, he adjusted the neurohelmet on his head, the Centurion shaking lightly as a result. "Noted Hamazasp. I'm sure the MechTechs will be able to fix it when we get back on the Ankhanne." There was a short pause before he continued. "The way's clear now for the infantry: I'll message the ship and we'll get some boots on the ground. Zohra, Karel, you two get back to the ship and escort the infantry. The rest of us stay and make sure there's no more surprises." He acknowledged the command with each and every member of his lance, and watched as the two lights mechs darted back off into the canyon, towards the ominous black egg in the distance that was the Ankhanne.

---

-30 minutes later-

The wait had given them enough time to move the wreck of the Hunchback out of the way with the combined efforts of their mechs, but a recovery vehicle would be needed at a later date to haul it back to the Ankhanne. Something to do in the few days they had before their taxi arrived back in the system. He was busy clearing out the rest of the wrecks when the radio crackled up once again, and the familiar voices of Zohra and Karel chimed in, their mechs soon appearing behind the bend in the canyon, a somewhat ancient looking APC in tow. Par for the course, but maybe they could find something else hidden in this base of theirs that wasn't a thousand years old.

"Look alive people, we're back in action. Hamazasp, you have the honor of being fire support: the locust can probably fit through these tunnels and discourage any soldiers left in the facility from doing something stupid: but I doubt these pirates want to fight much after their loss. The rest of you, if you don't feel comfortable holding a sidearm, you can stay here and keep watch: we don't want any surprises whilst we comb the inside of the facility." The rumbling of the Centurion slowly came to a halt as Ulrik began to power down his mech, shutting off panels and switches whilst he wrestled his respirator out of it's cabinet. "If you're coming, grab your respirators and meet me at the gate." With one last rattle of the joystick to make sure the Centurion was truly powered down, Ulrik placed the respirator over his face, adjusting the straps and checking the seal before he popped the cockpit open.

The low gravity of the moon made the climb down his mech a simple exercise, and he landed on the ground in a cloud of misty grey and brown dust. Watching the battlefield from the human scale made everything feel so much bigger and much more personal: one can so easily forget what it feels like to have boots on the ground when they pilot a giant fighting machine.

Surely the infantry from the Ankhanne felt the same: their small group of a dozen or so soldiers made their way quickly across the barren landscape in short hops and jumps, as if a bird was ready to swoop them up if they stayed outside for too long. At the very least their gear seemed far superior to their vehicle: shiny new blue Rasalhague uniforms and refurbished Kurita armor as far as Ulrik could tell, not too dissimilar from what he himself worse when he first enlisted. For a moment he felt right at home as he saw the other grunts, but his place wasn't with the infantry anymore. Picking up the pace to dash across the short sprint between his mech and the hangar, he soon found himself in the company of the infantry, standing at the precipice of the ominous hangar from which the Hunchback emerged.

Inside the klaxons were still blaring, informing the the staff about a breach and loss of atmosphere. Surely if there were mechanics in the hangar they'd be pretty scared right about now, but it seemed like everyone with a good head on their shoulders left at the first sight of trouble. Tools still laid discarded on the floor, and it seemed like whatever they were doing here before Ulrik's company landed was pretty important: dozens if not hundreds of crates laid abandoned on forklifts and cranes, ready to be either transported or their contents unloaded: whatever the purpose they'd find out soon enough.

---

Combat is over for the time being, so it's just the facility left still. A little bit of a preamble in this post, but I can promise the next post will be just one long description/story: it won't take us 20 years to finish this one encounter haha.

I just mostly need to know what everyone is choosing to do, so I can tie that into the next post. I don't expect big posts for this one :)

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

He muttered a silent prayer of gratitude to be granted the comfort of climate conditioning and spared the discomfort of those itchy respirators.

Hamazasp was the kind of gentleman who'd, to open a wrapped present, peel off the tape then unfold the paper into a slightly battered quadrangle. His recent adversary lacked that courtesy towards even allied infrastructure. The Taurian beheld the mutilated mechbay portal as he passed it en route to the tunnel network, reminding himself that respect for life and property separated his faction from his foe. Well, that and the bloodthirsty thuggery. And color schematics. A myriad of things, but the former foremost among them. He'd hardly commenced his walking cycle before a swarm of infantry buzzed about him, bounding in their low gravity environment. Confound it, it was cumbersome enough maneuvering his 'Mech without avoiding these suicidal mites!

His leg stalks were each a human's width, the limit of reasonably avoidable but only for those paying attention. Locusts were commonly used for riot control, so perhaps they were less hazardous than most. Still, law enforcement vehicles possessed better methods to ensure minimal accidental casualties. He fumbled for his comms, switched the setting to "Loudspeaker" (in hopes that the atmosphere was sufficiently thick to transmit sound), and alerted his comrades: "Oi, maintain a three meter berth from the legs' range of motion, please, thank you."

One could imagine Sulser on a pair of stilts by the manner by which he tiptoed over the terrain. The method was calculated but appeared clumsy, and occupied nearly the entirety of Hamazasp's conscious thought. He heard his neurohelmet buzz as it tried to keep up with his cerebellum. At last he reached a haven of respite, the entrance that would ideally funnel his allies into formations that wouldn't disrupt his movement. A minor yet audible scratch pealed above the neurohelmet's ring. The additional static hinted that Sulser's antenna scraped the upper surface of the facility. He was precisely the right height, though Lundqvist would be further inconvenienced.

"Oh, come on!" His voice echoed throughout the concrete canyon. "Apologies. Muting self." He returned to normal frequency radio. As if the lifeforms weren't a hassle already, he now faced a hodgepodge of tools, crates, and other knickknacks strewn across the ground. Channeling a concoction of creativity and frustration, he wound his foot back and pressed its flat forward in the attempt to kick a box aside. This was successful, and he'd knocked a couple spanners clear to boot. He'd repeat the process several times, forging an unimpeded path to venture down the tunnels as necessary. "My vehicle comes with high beam headlights. Permission to activate them?"

With the mission functionally over Fuka had her mind set on one thing: the A/C 20. She wanted it, she needed it, she craved it and all the hole-punching, armor-cracking carnage it represented. The Dragon was a tanky old girl and a hoot to pilot but the armament was lacking. The LRM had its uses and the medium lasers were fine, but an A/C 5, seriously? She didn't want to be relegated to picking off Locust arms her whole career; she was supposed to be slugging it out with other heavies! That wouldn't happen without heavier weaponry, and the 20 was about the heaviest thing not strapped onto a starship.

Fuka was about ready to lift her leg and piss on the thing like a dog when the boss man called for volunteers.

"On it, let's go see what they got."

Adjusting to teeny human legs after clanking around on big metal ones was always a trip for her, being disconnected from the neurohelm giving her the sensation of input lag. Nothing serious, a moment of hesitation from her feet when her brain sent a command, but enough to be noticeable. It was a side effect of being a bad pilot. Maunvering took so much brainpower that she had to reorient herself when out of the cockpit, more embarrassing than it was dangerous. Still, something for her to work on.

With her respirator secured and her Nambu autopistol in its holster she trotted up towards the front, eyeing the Rassies in their hand-me-downs with amusement. With an army of expendable infantry and Sulser still in his mech she wasn't overly worried about any pirates still hiding in the hangar, idly scraping some of the excess moon dust off her feet as she waited to get going.

They'd won in all but name, but the job still wasn't done until the DropShip was back in orbit. Jaromir would leave nothing to chance until then. He'd seen too many people relax and let their guards down too early. Hell, he'd been one of those people, once upon a time. No, there was still a chance that a pirate could be a complete son of a bitch and leave some sort of rigged up trap behind. Maybe even a self-destruct.

At first glance, the safest option would be to stay in his Trebuchet and guard the hangar. After all, he'd be behind several tons of armor still in case anything happened. But it was also a tactically stupid option. A long range direct fire support Mech on hangar guard duty? That was asking for him to be pushing up daisies if some sort of attack did happen from the rear. Only worse armament he could have for this sort of close-in knife fight would be a LRM. Actually, no, it'd be an Arrow IV. Regardless, as counterproductive as it sounded, the safest place Jaromir could put his ass while still obeying orders was smack dab in the middle of all the infantry grunts.

He made sure his extra mags were secure and grabbed his autopistol before exiting his Mech, nodding as he joined the others. God, he felt naked in the field without being in a cockpit.

"Trenchbucket's no good for hangar defense if it comes down to it. Who's getting left on guard detail?"