[indent][hr][hr][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qJLhXWW.png[/img][/center][hr][hr][b]13th Batallion, Alora Defense Corps[/b]
[color=silver][sub][b]IC 286.08.16[/b] // Petrichor-8 System, Frontier Planet Alora // Approaching planet's surface.
1608 hours // [@Raijinslayer][@Supermaxx][@Lemons][@Fading Memory][@Feyblue][/sub][/color][hr][hr][/indent]
[indent][color=silver]Before the battle had ignited in earnest, it had been collectively decided by the thirteenth battalion that they despised the newest additions to the front line. Not just by the soldiers, nor the captains, not even as a command from the lieutenant colonel in charge. It was a decision made by the whole hearted agreement by each man and woman in the unit, a hatred sprouted by the mere presence of the platoon that guarded the leftmost flank. 

Over the past two months, they’d seen thousands come and go in defense of their planet, people from all walks of life fighting alongside them for the sake of humanity’s survival. They laughed, they cried, they died, all in service of the greater cause that they may one day retake their homeland. 

The group that settled with them, shoulder to shoulder, could not be counted among those people. Support sent when none had come for several days, just after the orbiting command shuttle had declared the mission effectively lost? Whatever they were on the planet for, it wasn’t to save it, and were it not for the change in the state of the war the soldiers would’ve never seen the new platoon in the first place.

The rumor of what existed within their ranks had spread like wildfire, the bruised Constellations and reprimanded soldiers detained and brought back to base adding fuel to the fire. Some called it a weapon, others a monster, but the through-line of every shared story was that it was nothing like anything they’d seen before. Personal mobile suits were rare but well known, and the use of automated androids had been tested several times before. The thing within the new platoon was neither of those things, and the fact that it was compared to the former two was a frightening mental image.

So when the defensive line was drawn and soldiers got into position, none of the officers attempted to close the several feet long gap between their battalion and the supporting group, understanding that one should never speak an order they knew wouldn’t be followed. Especially when they would be reluctant to follow it themselves. 

The battlefield, while terrifying and frantic, was a comfort in comparison, the hundreds of thousands of hours they’d already spent clearing the red wave in previous engagements making the onslaught only slightly worrying. Legionnaires were a dangerous variant of Pawn, unrelenting in ways others were not, and their tenacity only rivaled by the malice they radiated from simply existing. But it was that same durability that made delaying their charges simpler than expected, the pile of bodies formed from each dying Legionnaire an obstacle the others were forced to climb over, their fellows still alive despite their wounds and making themselves a nuisance for the fresh meat that attempted to take their place. 

The beginning salvos of gunfire were spent inflicting disabling rather than fatal wounds, the flat plain of the wasteland quickly becoming an obstacle course for the Pawns behind the fallen. Each following barrage piled on the bodies, creating barriers that would protect the Legionnaires further behind from the piercing rounds but delaying the initial rush from crashing against their defenses at full force. Playing a fully defensive long game, the Constellations supporting them preserved their strength, the Bishops that attempted to break through having none of the chaff to obscure their approach and being dispatched swiftly. A coordinated effort forged through trial and error, experienced in ways that at night they wish they weren’t.

In comparison, when the soldiers of the battalion would check on the platoon beside them, they could only scoff at their inability to hold fast. The overwhelming difference in manpower was a factor for certain, but what truly cemented the platoon’s failures were the elite forces. The platoon had prepared for the battlefield with three mechs, yet not a single one had stayed behind the defensive line, leaving the soldiers to fend for themselves while the armored suits threw themselves directly at the tide of red. Their efforts were no doubt as useless as cutting the sea with a knife, and the infantry were going to suffer for it.

With so little to observe of the defensive line on that side, those free to do so watched as the thing of the rumors was dispatched by the Bishop, its swan dive with acceleration boosted by the thrusters on its body unceremoniously halted as the Spearman leapt up to meet her rather than wait for her to reach terminal velocity. The scuffle midair was brief, followable even by the few human infantry who took a chance to watch as the Bishop adjusted mid-air, the weapon’s outstretched blades used as a fulcrum for the tall, lanky figure to flip onto the experiment’s back, sending her crashing to the ground with both wings locked by its spear threaded in the gaps between them. 
 
The eventual fate of that [i]thing[/i] was left unobserved, the soldiers’ attentions caught as a loud whirring faintly rose from further up the flank. The following beam was bright enough that the dark sky momentarily resembled the night for those closest to the defensive line and the noise loud enough to develop tinnitus, those soldiers having a front row seat to the concentrated beam of plasma that carved not only through the Pawns by the flank, but into the firing zones of the battalion and the defensive corps beside them. A mech pilot of the latter had just barely gotten out of the way of the following blast, and from the way their frame stared silently in the direction of the beam’s source was indicative of the stream of curses the Pilot inside was no doubt complaining to his squad with. A weapon of that power on a medium-scale mecha was impressive, the devastation inspiring, yet the choice of angle when the user was on the furthest flank made it difficult to think that the Pilot was anything but a rookie.[/color]

“Dwellers!” [color=silver]The call rose from within the battalion's ranks, the dirt beneath their feet parting as bulky figures peeked from the soil, sharpened claws stabbing into the legs of unsuspecting infantry before pulling both themselves and their targets beneath the ground. The Pawn-Class Dwellers were an annoyingly effective utilizers of subterfuge, their large sizes barely an issue when it was completely enveloped by the earth. Slipping beneath the soil with one meant certain death for the common foot soldier, and after the first warning several of the soldiers immediately went into overwatch, acting as “mole exterminators” that dispatched the tunneling foes with heavy buckshot into the briefly exposed underbelly when the Dwellers attempted to steal one of their own.

While the initial attack had taken the battalion off-guard, the defenseless infantry of the neighboring platoon were most certainly having it worse, and of the fifty that had come to the battlefield, an officer counted only thirty remaining after the first sneak attack. Which seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.[/color] “Men, support those soldiers! We can’t let the enemy take the flank!”

[color=silver]Quickly, a company split off from the battalion to support the remaining members of the platoon, terminating the Dwellers who attempted another pass on the group the alien’s must’ve realized were the easier prey. A wide berth was given to the breach in the front where the weapon existed, but none of the soldiers could continue ignoring their fellowmen when they were dying through circumstances entirely out of their control.

The NCO who led the battalion sent to reinforce the gutted platoon was going to make certain that whomever was responsible for this lack of coordination was getting canned, that was for certain. He grumbled when he heard that the commander of the unit had left to deal with the Outlanders, a respectable reason at the very least, but if by the end of this conflict he didn’t have a list of the others within the chain of command he was going to have someone’s head as compensation.[/color]

[hider=The Fate of the Subject]
[color=silver]Pinned to the earth, the weight of a creature twice her size upon her back, and her weapons locked in place, were she alone the Aberration Integration System Subject’s story would have undoubtedly ended in that very moment. The Bishop’s arm reared back, hand poised to crush her skull with a simple thrust toward the earth, the Constellation known as Dombay thought it intriguing that a simple [i]tug[/i] of force was the difference between life and death.

Their influence shot out once more a moment before the Spearman realized that there was someone else aside from the prey beneath them. It was with great speed that the Bishop leapt away from the experimental subject’s prone form, the tangible appendage of force avoided by the barest of margins. A clear miss by a Constellation’s standards. The nineteenth numbered sword carved an arc through the air where the alien had once knelt, their closed gaze focused on the Bishop as it stood at the ready.[/color]

“I suggest you dust yourself off.” [color=silver]Dombay’s tone was casual despite the robotic figure’s spear held within its grip once more. Their light, airy voice was difficult to hear over the screams of the dying and blasts of gunfire, yet for Aissi it was clear as day. Pressing their fingers together in front of them, the blade they once held shot forth without a hand to guide it, the Spearman forced to fend it off for a few seconds while the Constellation continued.[/color] “The potential energy was fantastic, but the method too direct.”

[color=silver]Dombay grimaced when they felt their influence cut off, the trick of a floating blade only a distraction at their current level of skill as the Bishop deflected their blade to the side and took the opening to close the distance once more.[/color] “I shall attempt to give you an opening. Three seconds is all I can afford with this difference in ability.”

[color=silver]And with their lives dangling on the thin line of victory and defeat, the two Stardust faced their rapidly approaching, superior opponent.[/color][/hider]
[hider=The Fate of the Royal and the Bear]
[color=silver]Despite her lack of strength behind the strike, the blow against the Outlander’s barrier had garnered its attention, the disk-like head of the Bishop tilted in her general direction. It was the second attempt that made it move, dancing around the prone form of the fallen Grizzly as its several miniature thrusters made the precise movements to both avoid the projected spear and continue to pin the large metal frame possible. The Stardust was not a threat, the first attempt to catch it off guard a failure despite its defensive shell fizzling slightly from the remnant AB particles, but if it ignored the woman long enough she could eventually become one. The bulky heap beneath its legs, while imposing, was even less of an issue, and with only a slash of its blades across the head and from the armpit across it left the mecha where it lay. 

The damage, though inflicted semi-casually, were quite severe, with the damaged limb left unoperational and any important systems relegated to the faux head of the frame destroyed. The damage might’ve even affected the cockpit, the scythed blade of the Outlander’s arm having parted the reinforced metal plating like a knife through butter. If he were unlucky enough, the Pilot himself could’ve been injured, but only if he hadn’t taken the proper measures in the few seconds of lull before the inflicted damage.

It did not immediately charge the would-be-Constellation however, stepping forward at a sedate pace as if it had all the time in the world. Despite the Outlanders having a designation that depicted it as a unit of subterfuge, the pale white carapace shone beneath the light of the sun, despite said luster being obscured by the contaminated atmosphere. The purpose of its scales became clear a moment later, its barrier shimmering for a moment before its form vanished as if it were never there. As white is the summation of every color of light, the Aberrant utilized its barrier to simulate the colors of its surroundings, with only the faintest shimmer visible when the Bishop moved. A terrifying prospect for any normal human to deal with, and Constellations without the instincts formed from experience nor the sensory abilities required to ignore the Outlander’s adaptation fared no better.

And as the red tide began to swarm in, attempting to fill the void the Grizzly had made in pursuit of the Outlander, the struggle of the two began in earnest.[/color]

[/hider]
[hider=The Fate of the Veteran and the Rookie]
[color=silver]Effective as their individual efforts may have been, they were just as effective at attracting attention. The unit that approached Lictor and Kyra as the duo attempted to escape was the Bishop-Class Scorpion. Announcing its presence with a barrage of plasma bolts, the mech Pilot of the two utilized her reverse-joint limbs to leap away from the salvo, the shockwaves from the explosions of blue causing the frame to tremble from how closely the attack had come. Alongside it came another Spearman, spinning its spear rapidly to fend off the return-fire of bullets Kyra had attempted to sneak in during her retreat.

Scorpions, similar to Spearmen, had a humanoid shape. Bipedal with two limbs able to grip the large twin plasma casters that smoked from their most recent discharge, the deciding factor that differentiated the two was the dark brown carapace that blended better with rural areas than the Spearmen’s urban grays along with the thick, long tail-like appendage. The tip glowed an angry red, and Kyra cranked her thrusters to the max to avoid the cutting beam that threatened to bisect her frame. The front barrel of her machine gun, barely clipped by the red glow, careened toward the ground below, digging into the soil upon impact and the edge of the cut superheated to the point of melting. 

Alto, meanwhile, was forced to deal with the squadron sent to keep his attention away from the Pawn swarm. The Knight-Class Sparrows were much smaller than the Jetsam but built solely for speed, shaped like paper airplanes that flew through the air with faint trails of red exhaust behind them. Lacking any sort of direct fire power, their actual duty was a simple one, the two dozen Sparrows launched in the Pilot’s direction attempting to ram him full force with their bodies. Flying at speeds comparable to fighter jets for the express purpose of crashing into their targets, the fact that they were sent solely to take out his frame was a testament to how the Aberrants perceived the danger level of his weaponry.

And with the flank slowly becoming more and more active with their threat levels risen higher than expected by the enemy, the three far out of position are forced to fight their way back to the defensive line.[/color]
[/hider][/indent]