[IC] Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

[AndyC]

To keep the good news going, Marit could hardly be happier about the mission she was assigned to. Close to the new base, striking at loons spoiling to commit a massive war crime, with Jon on hand to share knowledge of the site and best of all, she wouldn’t have to get out of the ‘Mech. Only way it could be better would have been not having to defend something. Another thing that put a damper on the mood was the Crimson Fists presence. At the Depot raid, the CF lance that attacked them was reported further away than this one, yet they still managed to intercept them, likely due to their intel placing the Fists somewhere they weren’t. And a target this important - the dam, though no doubt they’d hear of their presence as well - was unlikely to go ignored. And they’d be coming from the North, meaning that if they arrived before the Knights got away, they’d have to go through them. ”Sir, do we know anything about forces stationed at the dam and the CF lance at Golf 12? Composition, how old that position report is…?” She supposed running into a different lance than last time was a safe bet, with the Fire Witch perhaps still being down a Raven, though the last one surprised them with a Longbow. What was this going to be? The Battlemaster? Some SLDF royal ‘Mechs they dug up from whatever forgotten bunker? A Steiner scout lance? ”And do we have any indication of what the Sword are bringing and from which direction?”

@Starlance

"The forces stationed at the dam itself are little more than a few Aqua Vitae security teams," the Colonel addressed Marit's questions first. "Rent-a-cops with small arms, at the very most a few jeeps with machine guns. While the company is politically neutral, we can safely assume they won't open fire on us unless we cause damage to the dam itself. That said, at the moment we can't rely on them as allies in the fight-- as I said, politically neutral, and technically non-military."

Colonel Wayne knew that Cassandra was playing a very dangerous game by even approaching the Green Knights, so expecting her to thrown in with all of her influence just yet would be a longshot. At best, the Knights would have to ask the AVC security teams to kindly step aside until the shooting was done.

"The Heavenly Sword are an irregular militia force," he continued, "who favor asymmetrical warfare. Their weapon of choice is suicide bombers, civilian vehicles loaded up with high explosives. If they want to blow open the dam, they'll likely need something big, so keep your eye out for heavy machinery. A lot of loyalist forces and even some Espian Guards apparently abandoned their hardware when the fighting in Yuzhny Portveyn ended, so it's possible that they've acquired some light tanks or missile platforms, but direct confrontation doesn't seem to be their style."

As he looked at the fist logo in sector Golf 12, he scowled.

"As for the Crimson Fists," the Colonel said, "By the last report, taken approximately eight hours ago, the Crimson Fist lances were all headed northwest, towards our current general area. It's unlikely they'll be able to turn around and reach the dam once fighting does break out. And by the time they arrive, we'll be long gone. However, it'll be vital to stay on your guard. The lance in sector Golf-12 appears to be their heavier assets. Haven't gotten any visuals on them, but seismic sensors were able to isolate at least one in the 70-ton range. Given the availability of Battlemechs in this region, in all likelihood that either means an Archer or a Warhammer. Either one is trouble we don't want just yet, but if everything goes right, they'll be hundreds of kilometers away."

Raven Rivers

Raven bowed down a little in respect and said, "A mission which plays well to my bleeding heart and the others' talents; thank you, Colonel." He then continued, "I echo Marit's question; the Heavenly Sword should be down to Infantry and Suicide Trucks, right? But just in case they have an old IndustrialMech hid away or the Crimson Fists decide to show their ugly mugs, I think we should keep ourselves ready for a heavier fight. I also presume that we are not using lasers or incendiaries, considering your instructions on collateral damage. Also, is there a map of the civilian areas close to the dam, the areas most frequented by workers and engineers?"

Life was returning to his expression and his voice, that much was clear. He was eager, but not too eager, his judgment, somewhat more clear. And he demonstrated that he didn't miss anything obvious when he turned to Jon and said, "So, it seems you're a MechWarrior as well or otherwise acquainted with vehicles, considering the way the Colonel talked about you; perfect."

Then back to the Colonel for one last question, "Will we be departing immediately, or will we have a few hours to prepare?"

@Starlance@AndyC@Pilatus@Bork Lazer

@Letter Bee

"The dam is large, but access is limited to two roads: one at the top of the near side connecting to the northern end, the other at the coastal side of connecting to the southern end. Given that the Heavenly Sword are probably going to be striking out of Yuzhny Portveyn, the southern road is their most likely route. As for civilians, there are a number of fishing villages on the coastal side of the dam. If the Heavenly Sword manages to destroy it, those villages will be wiped out in the ensuing flooding. The stretch between the dam and the ocean is primarily dirt roads and very little proper infrastructure, so a quick evacuation isn't going to be feasible.

"Chief Aadil's team is going to blow open the tunnels in twelve hours' time. Your task force will be the first ones in, since you've got the furthest to travel and the heaviest firepower in case we encounter trouble. Until then, get your 'Mech's prepped, and pack some rations, water, and whatever comforts you might need, because you're going to be spending the following 48 hours or more in your cockpits."

[Pilatus]

Jonathan McCord

Jon considered the words as they were spoken, listening carefully. The majority of the Guard in the south, FPA divided, loyalists dissolved and most interestingly, the Fists split up into three lances. It wasn’t the objective, but the tactician within him couldn’t help but look at the mechs within the cave and the open country on the map and think about how they could win. The Colonel was right, they obviously couldn’t trade against attrition, but off-paper, on the field, he could see the dagger forming. He breathed in a bit deeply and crossed his arms and thought as the briefing continued. It was possible. There was a glimmer of it in the Colonel’s tone, but he understandably needed to keep his people focused. They could still lose easier than they could win.

The unassociated callsigns of the mechwarriors that would be within his taskforce didn’t mean a lot to Jon other than novelty. He wasn’t sure about the connections to the machines other than the Raven pilot, but he was reasonably certain two of them were standing right in front of him and that Steel Rain would be the Von Luckner. It just fit. The Green Knights seemed to have a more casual nicknaming culture than the TDF. More slides clicked and he found it amusing how quickly the whole presentation had been thrown together and how both the Colonel and Cassandra seemed to be in their element addressing everyone, both for different reasons. When his name was mentioned more than a few scrutinizing glances were directed his way: The private that had confiscated his rifle, a senior tech with two prosthetic limbs and a host of others gave the most critical glances. Being accompanied by the infantry force was a good thing, not just tactically, but he and Dalton had a common doctrine. Jon knew better than to think it made them friends, but on the field, they would be of a similar mind.

“Reasonably doable” was about the most command-centric phrase he had ever heard and produced the tiniest of smirks across his normally permanent poker face. That was a gem that deserved to be saved for later. People that were willing to blow themselves up for a cause weren’t usually keen on reason or being captured. Likely the best they could hope for was that if any of the fanatics survived the ambush, they’d be too maimed to resist or kill themselves before the infantry could move in. He wondered how many EOD grunts were in the company. Running a successful maneuver and then losing men after action would be shit. The thought put a tension in his chest and he exhaled while the briefing continued through the other ops that didn’t involve him. He knew the area around the dam well as it was within his AO under his contract with Cassandra. They would have surprise, but he doubted the Knights knew the country as well as him and crazy people with bombs strapped to their bodies, or whatever else, tended to be unpredictable.

Marit spoke up and posed a good question about the intel on the Fists and the Colonel was likewise quick to answer. Considering the Knights’ raid, an end-around the base of the mountains wouldn’t make a lot of sense from their intel perspective, but it wasn’t out of the question either. The dam was another story.

The Tie Shan River Dam was different from most inland hydro-electric structures, working almost like a lock system and a dam in one. When the tide receded, the water was released through the generators and likewise when it rose, the flow was restricted keeping the shoreline along the east side at roughly the same level all the time and making for some pretty good fishing. The work shifts mirrored this schedule by design. Jon reckoned if he was a crazy bastard, the best time to hit it would be at shift change in the morning, right after third was headed home and when first had just arrived. The generators would be getting their first big run of the day and most of the workers and security would only barely be awake a couple hours at most. There would be just enough light to be inconspicuous in a large truck and still be able to navigate the narrow highway near the dam. The energy that even a small explosion would multiply while the blades were turning at full rpm would rip apart the whole structure.

He only nodded at Raven’s suggestion and glanced briefly in Cassandra’s direction at the hint of a timetable. A motion he knew would not go unnoticed with her. They would be flying out soon and he could get himself in position before the others arrived. He knew of a good spot and the sight of his Marauder was not unknown to the dam crew. Whether or not to tell the employees to come to work would be up to Cassandra. The dam had to run, but any tip that AVC was wise to the Sword’s scheme would likely result in somebody else, somebody without the time to or capability to prepare, getting suicide bombed. Jon was glad he didn’t have to make that call. If they were there, he could at least prep them; more eyes open and alert would be to their advantage.

The only other thing was the biggest one: Who was going to be in charge of this little soiree? He knew who it wasn’t going to be.

[Bork Lazer]

As they awaited further orders from Colonel Wayne, the crew of the Merry Go Round mired in their own musings, along with the rest of the camp who were waiting to see what the outcome of the deliberations would be. Allying themselves to a powerful ally like the Aqua Vitae Corporation was bound to have consequences down the line, but they weren’t exactly in a position to be fickle. They were desperate, low on morale and hungry for some inch of victory.

Aroxy only hoped that this wouldn’t mean the downfall of the Green Knights.

When Colonel Wayne called them for assembly, Takka merely yawned, lounging back, as the rest of the crew began dusting themselves off from their weary naps to go be briefed. Aroxy gave the evil eye at Takka, silently demanding an explanation for his lax behavior.

“ Well, you heard what the man said,” Takka began counting on his fingers. “ Infantry. Mechwarriors. Techs. We’re heavy material so - GAH!”

Helma began tugging on his cheek with her index finger, pulling the crew driver. “ Keep complaining, Takka, and I’ll beat your ass until it’s black and blue.”

The briefing ensued and Aroxy couldn’t help but shudder at the task they were assigned. It wasn’t a usual heavy slug fest in open fields where a Von Luckner thrived. It was guerilla warfare in closed, urban locales with hostiles that engaged in tactics that Aroxy despised. All was fair in war, but disguising yourselves as civilians was the worst sort of sin. He’d seen too many soldiers during the Free Worlds Civil War who went to hug a seemingly innocent child only to be turned into red mist a moment later.

“ Shit, why even bring Merry Go Round to this?,” Takka murmured to the rest of the crew. “ Ain’t a shooting gallery. All our turret will be doing is saluting half mast to these limp dick extremists…”

“ Shut up, Takka.” Aroxy whispered before addressing the colonel. “ Colonel, are you sure it’s wise to post Steel Rain to Mission Alpha? Such an urban locale isn’t good tank country and we’re liable to lose valuable war material in the process.”

[AndyC]

“ Shut up, Takka.” Aroxy whispered before addressing the colonel. “ Colonel, are you sure it’s wise to post Steel Rain to Mission Alpha? Such an urban locale isn’t good tank country and we’re liable to lose valuable war material in the process.”

@Bork Lazer

"Your concerns are valid," Colonel Wayne answered, "but I should clarify. The area on the far side of the dam is populated, but sparsely. The fishing villages are spread across a fairly wide area along the coast. And the area on the near side is mostly heavy woods and rolling hills. There is the possibility of collateral damage, but it's not likely. As long as you keep Merry-Go-Round's main turret pointed away from the dam, there shouldn't be much to worry about."

"As for why I selected you for Task Force Alpha," he continued, "I do share the same concern about the Von Luckner's primary weapon in this mission. But its secondary weapons are why I chose it. The short-range missiles should pack enough punch to dispatch any vehicles the Heavenly Sword sent in, with less chance of a stray shot going too far afield and endangering civilians. And the machine gun and flamer can make quick work of infantry and light vehicles. Unless they've got heavier equipment than they showed off in Yuzhny Portveyn, in all likelihood you won't need to fire off the autocannon at all."

[wikkit]

Before anything else in regards to Ingrid's estimation of this news, let it be said that she would be keeping personal watch over the Ostroc, sleeping beside it in the cold nights if need be. Scrap-hounds...just try and take what you can from this machine. You'll find an extra 89cm of refined Poulsbo steel to go with it, mark her words. In the hazy part of her mind, she could already imagine the threats she'd make should she find someone crawling by with a fusion cutter at the dismal hours of the morning...

Beyond that quibble, as large as Ingrid made it in her mind, the thrust of this new base of operations was that it would be less defensible but more easily evacuated. Not that they'd have much ability to do anything at all if they were scattered at this point, but at the least, some of the civilians could escape and try to find an out in hiding. They could only hope that this place and the tunnels beneath them - double-edged sword as those were; the enemy could probably move through them even faster if found - remained a secret. And, given their distance to any number of enemy strongholds, none of the more loutish personnel got drunk and wandered away...

With the announcement of her own assignment, Ingrid's eyes turned to Wyatt for an estimation of her reaction - not harshly, but simply questioning. She didn't quite know what herself to expect from working on foot, even if she didn't doubt her own, or Reya's either, ability to act cool under pressure. There was a unique danger present here, and she would be prepared for it shortly, but could she expect the same of an engineer? True, some part of her wished that she was going to be in Susser Tod, but she wouldn't question the assignment out loud.

The location concerned her in more ways than one, though. With a rigid stamp of the boot she stood up, as she often did during these briefings, and spoke to the Colonel once allowed to speak: "First, sir, are we allowed our own arms?" She could've meant many things, but a brief reflexive grip of the saber on her belt suggested she wanted to bring something all the more archaic and conspicuous. "Beyond that, given our contact's location...what are we to expect from Stiletto themselves? Is there anything known about this individual?" She wanted to know how sober the two of them could expect Stiletto to be, but that was already too harsh on their contact...

[Pilatus]

Reya Wyatt

Not being a military person, the Colonel’s barked orders always had a very theatrical feel to Reya. She didn’t really jump or move any faster even though she knew he was completely serious. She just sort of moved because it suited her to know what was going on and she respected him as a good man and a leader. The ones that snapped to ramrod attention and clicked heels, giving the whole nine-yards, always seemed a little comedic to her. She crossed her arms with a scrutinizing glance as the briefing got underway and particularly as Cassandra spoke. Whatever it was about this person that continued to elude her was driving her insane in the back of her mind, not just because she couldn’t remember, but because she always remembered. She arched an eyebrow at the part about editing public records to keep the knowledge of a hidden subterranean tunnel network a “family secret”. Even though it was about to be their ticket out of the cave, the whole thing sounded more than a little dubious in relation to Jeong family history. Considering it was also once Star League infrastructure, she was fairly certain that Comstar likely had the unedited planetary surveys. Questions filled her mind behind her eyes: How did they build it? What did they use to do the digging? Where was it now? How much of the tunnel network was natural formation?. The fact that it was supposed to be secret knowledge is what made her want to know.

The prospects of a 21 acre scrapyard however did make a certain part of her heart soar. Proper mechbays, tools and room to work sounded almost as good as upgrading their living conditions. She had everyone’s beams dialed in to run a little hotter using Espia’s natural climate to help the heat sinks do their work along with pulling a little extra damage, and it seemed like some of the mechwarriors even preferred it, especially Ingrid. Often in the midst of the other work that filled her days, she had thought about how they could use that preference. They needed another edge the next time they met the Fists, who by this time had likely salvaged some of her previous work and started gleefully installing it on some of their mechs. Her lips pursed slightly at the thought. It was like fine artwork stolen and hung up in the gutter shanty of a criminal. She had some ideas, but their limited resources hadn’t allowed much opportunity. Again she thought about the Ostroc’s original Totschlagen SRMs. She wanted to keep at least one of them because they were so rare and in case they ever needed to refit the mech back to original spec for some reason. She was definitely going to make sure Sol didn’t turn them into blasting charges. Trapped in a battle for survival and you’re being a hoarder. She thought to herself. She shrugged one shoulder at no one in particular. Yep.

What she hadn’t expected was for her name to be called out for another mission. She didn’t know what a “dive” bar was, but instinctively glanced over at the still smoking Ziska at the first mention of it. Unlike the raid, there wasn’t a pang of apprehension in her stomach at the legitimate prospect of violent death, apropos, being with Ingrid and a contingent of the ‘Boys in plain clothes felt very reassuring and dealing with people as a representative of the Knights was more her forte. She caught Ingrid’s glance from the corner of her eye and thought that maybe Lyons would have the particulars, but her soon-to-be partner went ahead and questioned the Colonel directly, in front of everyone.

Are we going to be using our own names? Something about Ingrid’s tone towards the Colonel or the way she said the words, made the bizarre question echo forward in Reya’s mind. She assumed the answer would be, No. Obviously. That would be ridiculous, but it felt more like a strange premonition than an inquiry she would ever verbalize. She shook her head a little and glanced at Tarak for a moment before looking back at the Colonel.

[AndyC]

The location concerned her in more ways than one, though. With a rigid stamp of the boot she stood up, as she often did during these briefings, and spoke to the Colonel once allowed to speak: "First, sir, are we allowed our own arms?" She could've meant many things, but a brief reflexive grip of the saber on her belt suggested she wanted to bring something all the more archaic and conspicuous. "Beyond that, given our contact's location...what are we to expect from Stiletto themselves? Is there anything known about this individual?" She wanted to know how sober the two of them could expect Stiletto to be, but that was already too harsh on their contact...

@wikkit

Daschke had a point. Even with backup in close proximity, sending unarmed operatives into enemy territory was a major risk, and one he wasn't entirely willing to take. On the other hand, if they were stopped by NPDRE soldiers and searched, having weapons on them might put them in just as much danger.

"I'm authorizing you to carry a small sidearm at your discretion," the Colonel decided. "Something that you can easily hide or ditch-- the NPDRE doesn't have total control of North Nui Awa, but we can safely assume they'll be setting up checkpoints at major intersections. Sgt. Dalton's team will scout approaches to the city first to see if we can avoid contact with the Espian Guard on the way in. If it's doable, you can go in armed. If not, the safer bet would be to ditch the weapons on approach. Once in the bar, make sure at least one of Dalton's team has eyes on you at all times. Do not enter the bar without finding at least two exits first, do not go to a second location with anyone, do not accept drinks from anyone, and do not give away any information about yourselves or the Green Knights. As far as anyone knows, you're refugees who fled from Yuzhny Portveyn a few days before the Heavenly Sword attack."

"I may be able to help in that regard," Cassandra spoke up once again. "A perk of helping run the planet's largest corporate empire is that my marketing department happens to have some top-notch graphic designers, who are used to working with a tight turnaround. I can put a few people I trust on the job and put together some false documentation, good enough to pass if some jack-booted grunt stops you and asks for your papers."

The Colonel raised an eyebrow, wondering why Jeong would sit on that potentially major asset until now. Was she merely struck by inspiration in the moment, or did she have other cards she was playing close to the chest?

After a moment's consideration, Gaius returned to answering Ramrod's questions.

"As for Stiletto," he stated, "we have very little info to go by. We have reason to believe Stiletto is female, and originally from off-planet. The majority of Espia's population is ethnically either Slavic or East Asian, so anyone who doesn't fit the bill is a possible contender. Prioritize anyone who looks like an out-of-towner, but be subtle about it."

Turning back to the Green Knights at large, the Colonel began to wrap the briefing up.

"Each of these missions has the potential to turn things in our favor," he said. "Contacting Stiletto can hopefully get us into touch with the FPA and a possible ally in the fight. Scouting the spaceport will give us a clearer picture of what the NPDRE is planning to use and who is funding this operation. And protecting the dam will not only save lives, but ingratiate us with the locals so they may provide us with information you can't get from the top down. Splitting up the team like this is a major risk, but it's one I wouldn't even consider if I didn't have absolute faith in your ability to succeed. Stay sharp, keep your head on a swivel, and trust your teammates. This is how we start to turn this fight around."

He nodded to Lieutenant Lyons, who switched off the projector screen.

"You have 24 hours to make your preparations. Dismissed!"

[Pilatus]

Jonathan McCord

A cigarette burned dimly in the darkness and a wisp of exhaled smoke curled into the night. Overhead a rolling blanket of cloud marched steadily across the sky shrouding the light of Espia’s moon into a subdued gray and silver like a heavy cloth being pulled slowly across a lantern. Jon watched the wind carrying the amorphous forms and smoked. He’d been there for a long time, having moved into position when third shift opened the spillways and the generators spun up with a roar of water and machine that filled the canyon and masked all sounds other than warning claxons and the freight-train thunder of millions of gallons moving seaward. As the Tie Shan River settled through another cycle of man-made tide control, the air quieted and the structure took on its own ambiance, humming with the steady movement of giant turbines at low rpm and the somewhat soothing sound of water moving. Amber and red fixtures spread ghostly light over walkways and service doors, combining to give the whole facility a sepulchral glow. Occasionally a loudspeaker would broadcast some announcement in crackled tones from a speaker that had seen many years outside in thick saltwater air. Jon drank a cup of coffee from a thermos top and leaned back against the footpad of his Marauder.

At some point Cassandra had made the decision not to tell the regular employees of the dam about the potential for danger. As for security, she had entrusted Jon to brief them for the possibility of both friendly and unfriendly visitors and that their agreeable secrecy would be appreciated in ensuring that operations continued uninterrupted should the situation become more, “complex”. She had a way with words. Jon thought. A sentiment that he knew didn’t go unnoticed by Colonel Wayne. He took another sip and set the cup down next to the thermos and lit another cigarette. It hadn’t taken long to brief the relatively small security crew which mostly amounted to having eyes up, ears open and that they would be most dangerous, should the need arise, by keeping the channel open and making their communications short and professional. From what he observed from his time on Espia, at least within Cassandra’s sphere of the Aqua Vitae Corporation, was that they were fairly rigorous in hiring practices. Everyone on the shift understood what was said and further what was not said in a potential defense of the structure. When the shifts overlapped, he’d give the briefing again, but the regular passdown between the guard crews was to be conducted normally.

His gaze shifted with a gentle wind that swayed the tree tops slightly. He didn’t anticipate having to take any shots at extreme range, but paying attention to windage was a bit of a habit. At a standard 1G the drop in his AC5 was predictable and nothing short of gale force would affect its trajectory out of the barrel for a significant distance. The biggest challenge he’d found, other than the regular shitty weather, was that being a smaller planet the Coriolis Effect came into play much sooner and had to be taken into account. The PPC’s naturally were undisturbed by windage, however he liked the simplistic ruggedness of his shoulder mount and the Kentucky Rifle painted on the side armor had felt like the perfect harkening back to a time of warfare long past on ancient Terra. Occasionally, he liked to read the surviving stories of the woodsman and cowboys of that time. The mountaineers, the trackers and hunters and the tactics they used. HIs mind wandered for a moment. He didn’t really consider himself spiritual in any way, but at some basic, genetic level, he’d felt the foregone call of eons in his blood. He felt it on the desolate Taurian frontier protecting terraformers from pirates and raiders poaching supplies and he could feel it the forests of Espia in the mineral salt taste of earth and water.

He pulled a sleeve back from his jacket and glanced at the watch face under his wrist. The sun would be up in a few hours and the Knights would be due in at any time. Marit crept into his mind first and he shook his head slowly, looking up at the hefty cloud layer again. At least the weather was helping for a change, he thought. With no moon or starlight, the Knights approach would be in near total darkness. He finished off what was left of his cigarette and turned to start getting his kit back together. Crouched in a depression on the edge of a treeline at the top of the southern hill that overlooked the dam, the profile of his Marauder would be hard to distinguish when the Espian star first rose in the east and cut long shadows through cloud against the morning. He thought he could have probably handled the mission alone, particularly with good position and surprise on his side. The southern road had an especially dangerous bend along the hillside that would make a hellish ambush point. However, Cassandra wanted to see what the Knights were made of and the Task Force Ops were the Colonel’s way of showing her just that. Jonathan didn’t envy their position, but after what he’d seen at the sports stadium, he didn’t mind the extra firepower on his side either.

He killed the rest of the coffee and took a leak before crawling up the side of the machine to the cockpit. The canopy folded down around him as he subtracted his jacket and stored it, along with the rest of his pack, in the compartment behind the seat. The sensors came online, however “bitchin’ Betty”’s voice was more subdued with systems again in passive surveillance. He pulled a worn, red cotton headband over his relatively unkept and windblown hair for the sweat that was sure to come later. It wasn’t quite time for the neurohelmet and he left it on the hook while opening a channel to the ops frequency and waiting for the Knights to arrive.

[Starlance]

The trek to the dam was every bit as bad as she expected it to be. In an attempt to stave off the boredom, she started reading through the Archer’s user manual, figuring the 900 page, A4 format grimoire would last a few hours even if she didn’t understand half of the maintenance sections. Apparently, Earthwerks Inc. also made the Thunderbolt. She didn’t know that. What was it with Earthwerks’ seeming inability to design a ‘Mech that had enough heatsinks, Marit thought as she worked a straw under the neurohelmet’s seal to take a sip of MRE lemonade that had gone disgustingly warm during the 17 hour road trip through the tunnels. One day, one day she would find a working, unattended minifridge somewhere and tape it into her cockpit. Lovett would complain about fire and loose object hazards in the cockpit, but it was hard to express how little she cared.

As they neared their objective for the day, she reached for the push to talk. ”Lance Leader, I’ve been thinking: breaching a dam doesn’t take much, all you need is to weaken it and the weight of the water behind it will do the rest. Now our working theory was that they’ll drive a truck full of explosives in from the South or something along those lines, but what if they load up a boat with explosives and come from the West side?” She offered a suggestion she’d been going over in her mind for the past 45 minutes, ”Should I post up by the Northern end of the dam? That way I could see the upstream water and have an easy way of getting onto the dam if they came from the South as expected. It would also help with collateral damage. I can’t accidentally hit the dam if I‘m standing on top of it.”

When the Colonel mentioned dirt roads to the South of the dam, she at first thought that played into their hands until she remembered she was on fucking Espia, where it rained 696 days of the year and a few days on top of it for good measure, so dust clouds kicked up by moving vehicles wouldn’t be a thing. And if what the Colonel warned them about was true and the lunatics got their hands on actual military hardware, would they use it and how? Distractions so the actual bomb could slip through? At least she didn’t have to worry about aiming too much. Once a lock was achieved, the missiles did their own thing, guided by gods knew what space magic, and the directions the attack was expected to come from didn’t have much cover.

[AndyC]

Abandoned Neodymium Mine
Eunsan Mountain Range
250 Kilometers Southwest of Balya Gora
March 25th, 3030

"Mine!" Sunny von Kemp declared to no one in particular, using a scavenged marker to scribble a short sequence of geometric glyphs on the side of an empty supply crate that had become her 'room' in the past few days. "Nobody can touch it, it's mine!"

"You sure about that, Sunshine?" came the gruff, scratchy voice of Pops, straining from effort as he and another AsTech set down an identical crate onto a hand-truck to load onto the convoy. "After all, if no one can touch that crate, you're gonna have to move it all by yourself."

Sunny's expression soured for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay, I'll put your tag on it, too, so you can help move it."

She drew a slash mark by the first line of glyphs, then added another. "There, it's fixed. Now I just need to tag my books, and--oh! Hang on a sec!"

As Pops and the AsTech worked, Sunny picked up a sharp piece of rock from the cavern floor and ran to one of the walls. On it, she drew an X, and in each of its four corners, she started drawing simple symbols.

At the top, she drew a flat, straight line.

In the left corner, two circles connected by lines to form a cylinder, and a trio of wavy lines coming out of the top.

In the right corner, a square with a wide line along the bottom, then a U-shaped line connecting it to the side of a triangle.

And in the bottom, a long diagonal arrow pointing down, with five tic-marks through it.

"Hey, cut that out!" the AsTech helping Pops with the crates scolded her. "The Colonel says we leave no trace behind!"

"It's for Lena," Sunny demanded. "You wouldn't get it."

"Kid, I hate to tell you this, but your sister's--"

"--really gonna appreciate that when she sees it," Pops interrupted the AsTech, his eyes poking out from over the rims of his mirrored shades and shooting the 'tech a deadly glare.

"She better," Sunny smirked, "it took me for-ever to remember this stuff. Now, where's my Never Ending Hearts Revolution? I need to tag it so nobody else tries to take it!"

As Sunny wandered off to mark her property, the AsTech turned back to the old man. "How long are you gonna keep lying to the kid about Wrathchild?"

"Who says I'm lyin'?" Pops shot back.

"C'mon, Pops, we all heard her 'Mech go down during the coup. Sooner or later, you're gonna have to tell her."

"A dead 'Mech and a dead Mechwarrior ain't the same thing," Pops insisted. "'sides, even if I did believe Lena didn't make it, what good does that do Sunny right now? Everybody needs somethin' to get us to keep movin', get us from one day to the next. Right now, the thing keepin' that girl's spirit up is the thought of seein' her brother an' sister again. You really wanna take that from her, right when things are startin' to look up?"

"...I guess not," the AsTech shrugged, "But she's gonna hate you for leading her on when she finds out Wrathchild isn't coming back."

"Well, you let me worry 'bout that," Pops said with finality.

As they worked, the AsTech kept looking back at the markings Sunny had left on the wall.

"So what exactly is that, anyway?" he asked.

"Low-sign," Pops asked. "Somethin' you won't find outside Von Strang's World, way out in the Barrens reach of the Periphery."

"That's right," the 'tech nodded, "you and Wrathchild and the kids are from the Barony, right?"

"Hell, I'm from every-damn-where and no-damn-where," Pops chuckled, "But yeah, Lena and Sunny and Diego are from a backwater planet run by a crazy old aristocrat family, the Von Strangs. Planet's got huge veins of diamonds, so most of the folks there are miners, gettin' kicked around and held down by the Von Strangs an' their goons. Since the aristocrats and their cops, or the 'Highs,' went outta their way to bust up any attempt from the miners--'the Lows'-- to organize, over time the Lows started leavin' messages in secret, in codes that the Highs couldn't figure out. Far as I know, nobody in the Sphere who isn't a Strang's World Low knows how to interpret Low-sign. Well, nobody but me, the kids, an' maybe a couple of folks in the Knights that Lena's taught it to."

"Huh," the AsTech nodded. "So what's it mean?"

"The line up top?" Pops pointed at the first glyph on the X pattern. "That's the floor of an empty room. Means there's nothin' here, that anyone who was here left an' isn't comin' back."

"And the circles with the squiggly lines?"

"Ah, see, that's a trash can," he answered. "Means there's something of interest to be found in the garbage. Or in our case, the scrapyard."

Following that up, he pointed at the square and triangle.

"That's a rich man tipping his hat," the old man explained. "Means there's friendly folks with money."

"So what's the last one?" he asked, regarding the arrow with the tic marks.

"That's easy," Pops grinned, "Directions. Down's south, of course, and the tic marks are how many days it'll take on foot."

"I think I get it," the tech nodded. "So all together, that says we've left this place, but if you travel five days south you'll find interesting friends at the scrapyard."

"More or less," the old man said. "Every group of Lows has their own set of signs, so even if the stars lined up an' the Guard happened to have another fella from Von Strang's World, chances are he wouldn't know these signs himself. So it don't matter a whole lot if we leave that sign behind, because nobody but Lena would ever know what it says."

"And she's d--"

"She's gonna be happy to read that," Pops insisted.

Finally, the two loaded on the empty crate, the one that Sunny had marked.

"How about these marks?" the 'tech asked.

"Simple Low-sign alphabet," the old man answered. "Her initials, S.V.K.-- other words, the property of Sunny Von Kemp."

"So those other marks she made are your initials? What letters are they?"

"Hah! Wouldn't you like to know," Pops chuckled, as the two continued their work.

Elsewhere in the cave, Sunny was marking the inside collars of a few T-shirts that had been handed down to her, some of whom had come from the volunteers who hadn't come back from the supply raid. On each one, she wrote the Low-sign for S.V.K.

"Mine," she said to herself in a sing-song voice, "Mine, mine...."

---

Outdoor Recreation Yard 2
Women and Children's Ward
Fort Tie Shan
March 25th, 3030

"Mine," the little sandy-haired boy muttered as he scratched symbols into a hard rubber ball. To a stranger, these symbols were nonsense, but to those who knew, they were the letters D.V.K. "Mine."

"Whatcha got there, kiddo?" came a warm, smiling voice from behind him. Diego turned and looked up to see the Captain, Miss Sally, putting on the kind of smile that Diego knew grown-ups only did when things were really sad.

"A ball from the rec room of the Clover," he said. "The other kids keep trying to take it, so I'm putting my tag on it. It's mine."

"That's a good idea," the Captain encouraged him. "And hey, I'll talk to the other kids' parents about making sure they play nice."

"It's the new kids," Diego said with a frown. "The big kids who came in the other day. They don't have parents to talk to."

Captain Roth nodded, her smile becoming a frown. The prison fort was getting crowded, with a huge influx of new inmates just the other day. She'd gotten word that most of them had come from the southern city of Yuzhny Portveyn, where the Espian Guard had just finished off the last of Governor Xiu's loyalists. Plenty of the new prisoners had been loyalist fighters, FPA guerillas, political dissidents, or just as likely, their friends and families.

Fort Tie Shan was near the bursting point with people, and tensions were getting high. Only the fear of reprisals from the guards had kept all-out violence from breaking out, and even that wasn't going to last much longer.

"Well, the next time the other kids try to take something from you," Sally said, kneeling down to pat Diego on the shoulder, "You come to me, and I'll set them straight myself."

"But they're not our crew," Diego said.

"We're all in one crew here," Sally answered, "they just don't know it yet."

As Diego went to play, a younger woman approached the Captain. Like her, the woman's hair was silvery white, a quirk of genetics rather than the effects of aging. Her upper lip was almost permanently curled in a slight sneer, as if she'd always just smelled something foul.

"I've got the latest inventory," Cynthia Roth, the Captain's younger cousin and Quartermaster of the Green Knights, said, keeping her body language casual lest the prying eyes of the security guards focus on the two. "Like everything lately, it could be worse, but it could also be a hell of a lot better."

"We'll think about what could be some other time," the Captain said, "and we'll focus on what is for now. How are we on meds?"

"The Fort's medical staff wouldn't spit on us if we were on fire," Cynthia scowled, "so we're starting to burn through what we smuggled in when they took us. We've got enough antibiotics for about another week, but what's concerning me are the painkillers and uppers. I think some of the men are taking more than they're supposed to, and getting addicted."

The Captain nodded. While the women and children had for the most part been left alone beyond detainment, most of the able-bodied men were shipped to nearby manufacturing plants and used as slave labor during the day, only brought back near the dead of night. The guards had no concern for their well-being, and failure to work was met with severe punishment, so many had taken to sneaking pills to give themselves energy or dull the pain to keep working.

"And the food and drinks?" she asked, a coded question. At the very least, the warden hadn't begun starving the inmates, so actual food and drink wasn't a concern yet.

"Well we've got enough silverware to seat twenty," Cynthia answered, "and can probably mix three or four Martinis, though I'm still looking for the keys to the champagne cellar."

Both Sally and Cynthia Ross knew that eventually, the warden and guards of Fort Tie Shan would turn their attention to them. Either the Green Knights would stage a rescue, or cause enough trouble that the NPDRE would begin threatening the prisoners to get the Knights to surrender, or the Knights would all die and the prisoners would outlive their usefulness. In any situation, they both knew a fight was coming, and had begun to make plans.

'Silverware' meant they had gotten their hands on enough loose pieces of metal to begin making crude blades. 'Martinis' meant the chemicals and containers to make Molotov cocktails. And the 'champagne cellar' meant the gun locker.

It wasn't nearly what they'd need to stage a breakout, but if Gaius and his men were coming to get them, it might be enough to split the guards' attention.

And Gaius was coming for them, Sally knew it.

If only because she and the other inmates were still alive.

"I've been running the numbers in my head," Cynthia said, "and it's really making me wish I'd listened to Mom and Dad and just gone to law school. But no, I just had to go play space-hero with my cool cousin and her not-boyfriend, because I wanted to--"

"Hang on," Sally interrupted her cousin's griping, looking at the patch of dirt in the yard in front of them. "do you recognize that?"

Before Diego had run off, he'd drawn something in the dirt. An X pattern with four symbols in the corner. Sally recognized the code as something Wrathchild had shown her and the Colonel, something called 'Low-sign.'

A triangle with a crescent at the top corner. Devil horns, the Captain saw, which means a dangerous man.

A circle with three long lines reaching down from the bottom half, and a cross in the upper right. The man has a long beard, and is missing his right eye.

Three small triangles, and above them two crossed bones. Dangerous to children.

An elongated diamond, with the long end pointing up like a dagger, and a short line poking from the bottom. Get a weapon, protect yourself.

"Wasn't there a new guy who came in last week with the new prisoners," the Captain asked, "with a beard and only one eye?"

"I think so," Cynthia shrugged, "Why?"

"Just a piece of business I'm going to have to take care of," she said, her voice becoming a growl, her hands tightening into fists.

In a corner of the yard away from the eyes of the guards, Diego dug in the dirt until he found something he'd buried days before: a screwdriver, its head ground and sharpened into a long point.

On the handle, he'd scratched the letters D.V.K.

"Mine..."

---

'Diamond in the Rough' Bar
NPDRE-Occupied District
North Nui Awa
March 25th, 3030

"Mine!" a young woman's voice all but shouted over the din of the crowd, a raised hand signaling the source of the call. Seeing the woman in question, the bartender turned toward her and handed her a tall glass of amber liquid capped with creamy foam.

The young woman threw back the frothy brew in a few quick gulps, then let out a contented sigh. Damn, but she'd needed a good drink, and as dingy and crowded as a soldier's bar was, at least the beer was good and cold. While part of her wanted to order another, and another, and maybe a few more after that, she had to keep her senses sharp. She was deep behind enemy lines, after all, and this was, as the Colonel optimistically put it, a target-rich environment.

A little over a week ago, she was a Mechwarrior, leader of a lance of Green Knights, trying to keep this backwater world from tearing itself apart. Then they'd been sucker-punched, caught off-guard by enemies they never even knew were there.

Her Wolverine had been shot out from under her, blasted into a smoking heap, and she'd been left for dead. As far as anyone on Espia knew, Lena von Kemp was a corpse.

At first, her only thoughts had been on survival. She'd lived off of scraps, scavenging bits of food and tattered rags, scurrying away from the enemy soldiers like a rodent. It wasn't until she happened upon an unlucky Espian Guardsman wandering off alone that her thoughts shifted to the offense.

Lena subconsciously rubbed the bandages that wound tightly around her left hand. Poor bastard had given her a fight, but in the end, she'd gotten a canteen of clean water, a few days of rations, a change of relatively clean clothes, and a pistol for her trouble.

Since that night, she'd linked up with a train of refugees fleeing the capital city and down to the cities of Nui Awa. Along the way, Lena had claimed a few more Guardsmen. She'd relied on jumping them alone in the dark at first, but here, with so many enemies about, she'd have to be more subtle about it.

Tonight, she was on the hunt for bigger prey. Grabbing canteens or the occasional blessed fresh pair of socks was one thing, but she wanted more. She wanted access to the NPDRE's facilities, passes to get her onto their bases, into their armories, anywhere she could start doing some real damage. That meant reeling in an officer, and to pull that off, she needed to play it cool.

"--another heroic victory by the Crimson Fists!" came a newscaster's voice as someone cranked the volume of the holo-vid screen over the music. "Yes, these gallant masked avengers once again delivered the people's justice, smashing through a terrorist cell of the vile and traitorous FPA!"

The holo-vid screen showed footage from a skirmish earlier that day, of Crimson Fist Battlemechs rampaging through a heavily populated area, blasting vehicles that the newscaster claimed were 'cleverly disguised' FPA technicals. The big money shot was a wide shot of the Fists' lance leader, a 70-ton Warhammer, firing both of its Particle Projector Cannons into an alleged FPA hideout that looked mysteriously like a civilian apartment complex.

A cheer went up throughout the bar, and a young captain raised his glass. "To the Crimson Fists!" he shouted, bringing another cheer. Some obnoxious electronic rock began playing, and even though her blood boiled, she'd found her target. She joined in the cheer, catching the captain's eye. He gave her a hungry smile, which she returned as she began to cross the room to approach him.

Her stomach churned at the thought of what the boy had in mind, but it would all pay off in time. The Espian Guard, the Crimson Fists, they'd learn soon enough that Lena Von Kemp wasn't a corpse...she was a vengeful ghost. And she was going to haunt those fuckers forevermore.

"Omhygod, the music here sucks, doesn't it?" a voice chimed in as someone sidled up to her.

"Hm?" Lena turned quickly, a bit of split-second restraint all that was keeping her from drawing a weapon.

She was met with a dark-skinned woman, maybe a few years older than Lena, with a shock of bright green hair. She wore a skimpy fluorescent top and mini-skirt, a necklace with a pendant just over her cleavage, and a plush white fur coat over it, an outfit picked specifically to catch a certain kind of attention.

"I said this music sucks, doesn't it?" the party-girl repeated. "I want something I can really move to."

For a moment, Lena raised an eyebrow. Yeah, the music wasn't great, but it was the sort of dance music that was popular on this world. And the way she emphasized words was--

...no. Couldn't be.

Lena tested a response, just to be sure.

"The band's just better on tour," she said. If the party-girl didn't take the response, then it was nothing, some passing remarks about shitty bar tunes. If, on the other hand--

"Maybe, but you'd have to spend a lot of time on the road to know where they're playing next."

Spacers' cant. A secret language of smugglers, bandits, pirates, and gun-runners found in the reaches of the Periphery. Pops had taught it to her when they'd first escaped Von Strang's World. Like Low-sign, it was a way to communicate without anyone being able to catch on to what was really being said, a coded dialect of key words and phrases disguised as idle chatter. Starting a conversation using words like "move," "tour," "road," or any other word about travel was often a way to tip someone off that you could talk the talk.

"You spend a lot of time with touring bands?" Party Girl asked, keeping to the theme of chattering about music. What she'd really said was You're from off-planet, aren't you?

Lena wasn't sure what Party Girl had in mind--if she was a potential ally, if she was trying to run a scam, or if she was some kind of spy--so she answered carefully.

"Not in a while," she answered. "I've been hitting up the local shows these days." It was playing along, but ultimately a non-response: I've been on Espia for a few years.

"Ah, well, a show's a show," Party Girl shrugged, "and showbusiness is showbusiness."

Lena bristled. Emphasizing 'business' in this regard either implied that she knew Lena was a mercenary, or was implying she was a prostitute.

"I don't know about showbusiness, but--"

"No worries," said the stranger. "I'm always on the lookout for talent, and I thought maybe the bands you toured with did paying gigs."

This time, the implication was straightforward: I'm looking for mercenaries.

"Yeah?" Lena blinked, trying hard to maintain her poker face. "What kind of shows are you into?"

"Oh, I like my tunes loud and heavy," she answered. "Some tunes that really stomp."

Lena gaped for a second. Spacers' cant varied from every planet, moon, station, and asteroid, with as many dialects as there were stars in the Sphere. But anyone with even half an inkling could read it plain as day.

I'm looking for men with Battlemechs.

"...I...I don't know if that's my scene," Lena said, trying to regain her composure. "One sec."

Lena excused herself and broke away from the conversation, nearly knocking over a barstool as the headed to the bathroom.

Once inside, she took a few deep breaths and splashed some cold water on her face. Who the hell was this person? Why was she hitting up strangers in a bar looking for off-world Mechwarriors? It didn't make any sense.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to throw you off," Lena heard Party Girl say, looking up to see she'd followed her in here. "I was taking a gamble there; I see it freaked you out."

"Who the hell are you?" Lena demanded.

"Just someone who's doing what you're doing," the stranger said, "Getting valuable things from stupid drunk soldiers. I figured you're an off-worlder, you're fairly good-looking, and you're hanging around in a soldiers' bar. So either you're a working girl, a scam artist, or you're hustling these idiots for information."

She tried to play it cool, but Lena knew she'd blown her cover.

"Well, you're partially right," she admitted, "and partially wrong."

"I'm sure," Party Girl said condescendingly. "Either way, if you want to talk more 'music,' I won't be hard to find. But if you're just here hunting for another target, you should know...this bar's my turf. Friendly warning."

"Right," Lena nodded. "In that case, I'll be seeing you."

"Sure you will," Party Girl nodded.

As she passed her on her way out of the bathroom, Lena noticed the pendant on Party Girl's necklace: it was in the shape of a long, thin silver dagger.

A stiletto.

Lena tossed a few coins on the bar to pay for her drink, and wandered out of the Diamond in the Rough as the soldiers began to get rowdy. As the night settled over North Nui Awa, she wasn't sure if meeting this stranger made her feel less alone, or more so.

She ducked around one of the corners and picked through her pockets, finding the combat knife she had taken from her first kill. With the tip of it, she began scratching symbols into the building's facade.

A circle with two wavy lines draping down from either side. A woman.

A coil with a forked line at one end like a snake, and three wavy lines beside it. Green hair.

Two interconnected circles, with two straight lines inside the circles, and a wavy line in the section where they overlapped. Talks in code.

A cross with devil horns. Could be friend or enemy, be careful.

Lena knew it was next to impossible that anyone who ever saw this graffiti would ever know what it meant, but she had to hold out hope somehow that she'd eventually get back in touch with her unit. She'd left dozens of messages like it from here to Balya Gora; if the Knights were still out there, maybe she'd get lucky and some of them would stumble across it.

As she began to leave, her eyes were drawn to the window, staring once again at the footage of the Crimson Fists and their "heroic" battle.

Even if she never saw the Green Knights again, she'd find a way to make those bastards pay.

Her eyes locked on her target, and she once again began to carve.

She wasn't staring at Party Girl as she marked her target.

She wasn't even staring at the captain she'd planned to take.

She was staring at the Crimson Fists' 'Mech, the imposing form of the Warhammer, as she carved the Low-sign for L.V.K. into the wall.

While the mark was on the wall, Lena stared at the Battlemech on the screen, and knew her goal.

Mine.

[Pilatus]

Raven Rivers

“Roger that, Giggles.” Raven answered. The swift stride of the ShadowHawk beneath him was so familiar from years behind the controls that the feeling of momentum it carried in the throttle was fifty-five tons of second nature and having to keep their pace low for Sgt Dalton’s APCs and Aroxy in the Von Luckner made it nearly an afterthought. He eased back on the speed even more, bringing the machine to a slow trot as they neared the waypoint the Colonel had issued to link up with Jon. He scanned the world around him that was exploded in the grainy green of his mech’s night-vision sensors. Nothing on scope other than the Knights and only the dam in the distance, glowing white as the sensors magnified the structure’s lighting. “Boats don’t really seem like their style.” He said. The newsfeeds from Yuzhny Portveyn that the Knights had picked up played in his mind. The Heavenly Sword literally drove a truck to the front door of the stadium and exploded themselves. As functional and correct Marit’s proposition was, it seemed like it lacked the same bravado. “Watch your footing on the way up, probably best to stay off the structure itself though, we don’t know what it’s rated to hold.” He cautioned.

As they approached he could see the roads connecting over the top of the dam the same way the Colonel had described in the briefing. It would take Marit a few minutes to get into position. He checked the sensors again, probing the terrain with a careful sweep, nothing. His lips twisted a bit. He knew Jon was here. The man didn’t seem like the type that was late and had nearly a day’s head start on them. Something about him felt off to Raven, after their initial meeting. He’d seemed distant, nonchalant even, like he didn’t really care if the Knights were wiped out- well except for one: He noticed the way Jon glanced at Marit first whenever he spoke, little that it was. The others may have thought he’d lost sense of himself in the combat that followed the raid and they were right, but Raven knew his fatherly instinct was unquestionably intact. He raised a son, haughty and stubborn as he might have been, but he still felt he owed a measure of protection towards the younger women of the Knights: Marit, Reya, Lt. Lyons and some of the others. There were too many unknowns about this mercenary. Raven pegged the man for a mechwarrior, but it didn’t really matter, he would keep his eyes peeled. His gut warned that if Miss Jeong ordered him to shoot them all in the back he’d do it.

Raven shook his head and reeled the thought back in. Perhaps that was too dark. He let out a sigh, thinking about Andrew and Katrina and glanced briefly at a worn photograph of the two of them tucked into the frame of the Hawk’s canopy armor. The Knights were a family, not just another sell-sword mercenary crew. Something he knew the Crimson Fists and maybe even their supposed new allies had any concept of. They were different. When he led his lance, they were under his care and direction, not just employees collecting a paycheck, at least not him. Maybe it was the reason for his breakdown before, the way he cared. His resolve hardened at the thought and again he was starting to feel like his old self. He keyed the comm to report back to the Colonel that they arrived as scheduled: “Knights in position, Gringolet. We’ll fan out and lay low. Giggles is posting up near the structure. No sign of our associate... Standing by.”

@Starlance
@Bork Lazer

[Bork Lazer]

Nui Awa was a wet, sticky urban hellhole that made Aroxy’s skin crawl asMerry Go Round trudged through the concrete maze, its tracks squishing asphalt and concrete into a smooth expanse. The spastic, metallic groans of the Von Luckner’s The new treads that had been fitted on in the repair bay were a patch job, salvaged from the remnants of wrecked Marsdens and Manticores. Expecting factory-fresh material out in hostile enemy planetary territory was a foolish wish at best. In spite of Takka’s arguments, the reality was that Merry Go Round would only receive a proper repair once the Green Knights pissed away from this system.

Aroxy inhaled the draughts of his ashen cigar before stubbing the end against the chassis. He hammered the hull loudly with his fist two times and the tank slowed to a crawl under the shadow of the hydroelectric dam. It was a block of harsh contours and cast concrete that upholded function over style. The turret axle swindled over to the back end of the tank towards the back of the column. The APCs crowded around the bulk of the Von Luckner, hugging close to it like ducklings whilst the two humanoid mechs towered above them. Aroxy took the radio off his shoulder and switched to his own personal channel for crew comms.

“ Keep calm and hands off the trigger. Last thing we need is a bunch of high-strung gunners, - “ Aroxy paused for a half second before emphasising the next word with venom. “ Takka.”

Aroxy flicked back to platoon comms and barked into the radio. “ This is Steel Rain. We’re keeping weapons cold for now. Advising any infantry units to shack up behind us lest they want to go on medical leave for 3 months.”

[Letter Bee]

Andrew Rivers

South Nui Awa - Unknown FPA HQ

50 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, and a set of radio calisthenics after that, Andrew Rivers thought as he spent the long days after the harrowing escape from Yuzhny Portveyn exercising, preparing his body and mind for an uncertain future. We're not dead yet. We have hope. The outcome is still in the balance.

His jacket was draped over a chair; he took it with him even in his rare showers because it was proof he was a Green Knight, his link to his family. He had no doubt his father will be coming for him, that at the end of the day, Raven Rivers would find him, and they would all be one big happy family again - This was the hope that sustained him in these dark days. Hope, faith, love; Andrew had never been religious, but he appreciated those themes better now.

Not that he was a convert to anything; true, most of the books he had access to as a 'Guest' of the FPA were religious or devotional in nature, but Andrew took only bits and pieces of consolation from them. Instead, as he kept training, sharpening his body and mind, making the most of his stay in his room, consuming every bit of food and drink provided him, and occasionally trying to talk his 'minders' to give him the news, Andrew learned to wait.

Of the little family, it was his mother who was patient; his father can pretend to be such, but they all knew better. Andrew thought about what his mother must be suffering right now, how the entire civilian contingent of the Knights must be doing in Fort Tie Shan, and this time, he contained his resentments.

As he brushed the sweat from his forehead with a dirty rag, Andrew threw himself into another set of sit-ups on the floor of the room he had been locked in, no longer pretending he was above anger, above grief, above hatred. He just learned a lesson his father hadn't done so, as far as he knew: You can feel hatred, anger, and resentment, but you don't have to let it out. Hold it in, but do not hold it back; feel but keep it private.

He was not going to explode, to grow psychotic, his anger will burn and smolder, but it will be channeled, metered out as needs must. This was what he promised himself, all alone in this dirty room, a 'Guest' of the Free People's Army, one who was trying to gain their trust but was now conscious that anything can happen to set that quest back. Anything.

My life is no longer in my own hands. I don't have control of my fate. But that is not forever; I can wait now. Dad will come for me, and so will the Colonel. Another 50 sit-ups will do for the next hour, then I can rest, relax, meditate, and pray(?). Then I start again unless my minders offer me another plate of rice and a few bits of fish.

He checked his jacket to see if the FPA had allowed him to keep a few of the more 'innocent' items, such as a portable game console, a toy, or even candy. If they had, he can use that as a bribe to get some decent milk or even calcium supplements. If they hadn't, he'd offer to do manual labor for them in their base in exchange for those; carefully watched, of course, even though it'd be absurd for him to attempt to escape...

[Pilatus]

Jonathan McCord

Jon had been sitting there in the dark for a while with only the dim glow of the Marauder’s instruments providing any light. He had his arms crossed and was watching the terrain as the canopy glass refreshed in subdued green. The machine beneath him hummed in a low tone like an animal sleeping with one eye open. He thought about his dad, laid low in a hospital bed, his mom, the farm and what was left of the salvage business. Sometimes the feel of the seat reminded him of being a kid and he could picture his much younger father showing him the controls before he could hardly touch the foot pedals. Back then Ossie’ didn’t even have any weapons and he could remember stomping it around the open fields on their property with a neurohelmet too big for his head just barely trying to keep his balance. He and the mech had almost grown up together. When he thought about it now, after everything that had happened, he just felt low, like he didn’t appreciate those times enough or that he was responsible for what had happened to the Legion. He knew he wasn’t and there was nothing else he could have done, but other than the faceless onslaught that had attacked them out on the frontier, there was no one else. Owning your shit was just part of being Taurian.

The Knights arrived. He could feel the ground quake under him before he could see the movement. The Shadowhawk in the lead followed by the Archer, the Von Luckner and a contingent of APCs. The line crackled with Raven’s voice and he watched Marit moving into position without even noticing him on the far side of the dam. None of the others seemed to either. He found it interesting that the odd-talking Raven was leading the lance. The Colonel must have had some measure of faith in the guy, but whatever the case, Jon reckoned the Heavenly Sword was going to shit a holy brick when they rounded the bend a few kilometers back and figured out their little network of insanity had been infiltrated. He smirked a little bit at the thought.

His fingers hovered over the transponder output and the strobe control that operated the small safety light on top of the insectoid torso section. In addition to defending the dam, Cassandra wanted him to evaluate the Knights, see how they operated as a team and how worthy they were going to be as an investment. She had also told him to play nice so he figured it was time to let them know that he wasn’t late to the party. “Mudcrutch is on station.” His voice on the comm was about as enthusiastic as it had been in the cave. Maybe if they lived long enough they would get to hear his real nickname or get close enough to Ossie to read it on the side next to his name under the canopy. Until then he had a list of throw away callsigns. He glanced over at Marit’s Archer briefly before tapping the transponder and strobe. The light on top of the Marauder blinked quickly three times in the darkness next to the tree line and for a moment the Knights’ IFF sensors would pick up an unknown contact on top of the southern hill.

@Bork Lazer
@Starlance

[Starlance]

Marit quickly found a good enough place to park Archie. It wasn’t ideal, but the ideal was too easy for the enemy to pick out. The runner-up she selected had a rocky outcrop obscuring her view of the north side of the river upstream of the dam, but enough foliage to somewhat conceal the shape of a kneeling Archer and enough clearance to swiss-cheese any boat trying to sneak up on the dam’s upriver wall while having a clear view of most of the Southern access roads. She started scanning the West-South sectors the Heavenly Sword could approach from, occasionally looking up to cover anything sensors might have missed with her own eyes. She should’ve brought a pair of binoculars, stupid.

Still, she felt pretty confident she could detect them despite her general inexperience, she was an Archer driver after all - 13 tons of armor, four tons of hate and the remaining 53 were weapons-grade cowardice. Ideally, she’d be 300 plus meters away from the fight, making the lives on the receiving end short and miserable and sensors would be the only way she could see what was going on. The importance of sensors, that was something she learned on her very first outing, shaking in her boots in half a Dervish that smelled like fish. Providing fire support one second, a Cicada coming at her like a bat out of hell the next. The life and career of Marit Alva Saarinen would’ve been a very short one had it not been for her Lancemates that day. But with the experience of Family Man and Aroxy’s crew, plus the infantry support, the madmen would have to pull off something special to catch them napping. Now, they hurry up and wait.

<Mech powerup detected!>
Betty’s unexpected callout startled her. ”There you are. Reading a heavy ‘Mech on the South bank, that you? What do you think, can the dam take the weight of a ‘Mech if need be?“ She asked just to be sure. If Jon was looking, he would’ve seen Archie’s torso rotating to face where the sensor contact had pinged and waving, ”Hey, now that we’re sort of coworkers, are you going to loosen up a little or are you going to be next in line after Ramrod for stick removal?” She added in a considerably more light-hearted tone.

[AndyC]

Nui Awa Hydroelectric Dam
20km East of North and South Nui Awa
March 26th, 3030

"Remember," the Sword Bearer had told them just before dawn, "what we do today, we do for the good of Espia, whether the people realize it or not. Without the guiding hand of the Celestial Wisdom, this world is lost to chaos and disharmony. The people of Espia have lost their place in the heavens: it is up to us to put them back in their place. They must be reminded what happens to those who defy the Celestial Throne."

Now, the unnamed Swordsman gripped hard on the handlebars of his Mótuö Chë Shang No. 2, the two-stroke engine on the single-wheeled monobike snarling angrily as he opened up the throttle. Many of the other Swordsmen had chided him for clinging on to such an ostentatious luxury item, an expensive and flashy toy created by the gluttonous capitalists for the amusement of the hated bourgeoise, but while he had enjoyed the thrill of driving it in his previous life, he now wanted to take this symbol of greed and excess and use it to strike a blow to his oppressors' hearts.

"The Nui Awa Dam has long been a symbol of the stranglehold of the capitalist oppressors," the Sword-Bearer had reminded them, "the property of the Aqua Vitae Corporation that ransoms life-giving water for filthy lucre. The people of Espia have become dependent on them, rather than accepting the Chancellor's grace and charity. By destroying it, we will give them no choice but to fall upon the mercies of the rightful ruler of this and every other world."

As he weaved between a pair of Jeeps, the Swordsman heard the whine of electric rotors overhead, and looked up to see a Gossamer drone whizzing over them. Typically a surveillance drone meant to watch over the populace, this particular drone, as well as a half-dozen others that flew with the convoy, was instead loaded with cannisters of chaff.

The Swordsman suddenly felt his bike swerve, having taken his eyes off the road for just a smidge too long, and he fought hard to keep the monobike upright. Even with the months of practice, the extra weight of the shoulder-mounted SRM slung across his back made maintaining balance difficult, as did the blocks of plastic explosives taped to both sides of the bike.

"The mission of the first wave is to disrupt and distract," the Sword-Bearer had briefed them. "We expect the dam to be lightly defended, either by AVC security guards or perhaps a light NPDRE garrison. They will attempt to set up a blockade across the roads once they realize what is happening. By sowing chaos and fear, the first wave will slow their efforts long enough for the heavier assets of the second wave to smash through any defenses they might have. Together, both waves will clear the way, and the heathen pig-dogs will be introduced to Gonggong."

As he raced the Mótuö Chë Shang No. 2 to the front of the pack, he felt more than heard the rumble of the engines thrumming around and behind him. Nearly a dozen Burro trucks, their beds converted to carry machine guns and rockets. Six or seven speedy Freedom 900 hover jeeps, their holds packed with high explosives. And close to forty assorted civilian cars, trucks, and motorcycles, all rigged with bombs.

In just a few short minutes, the Swordsman knew, every one of them would be dead. The thought did not fill his heart with dread, but with pride.

"Your lives belong to the Celestial Throne," the Sword-Bearer told them. "In your final act, you will bring glory to the Chancellor, and strike down those who sin against the will of heaven."

In a previous life, this Swordsman had been the son of a wealthy banker, one of the bourgeoise who kept the working people under their hateful thumb. He had come to learn the evils of capitalism in university, and joined in several student protests, before being approached by the man he would come to know as the Sword-Bearer. He had learned his true purpose, how his life could serve the greater good rather than be wasted on excess and vice. That day, he had forsworn his name, foregone his possessions (barring the monobike that the Sword-Bearer claimed for their motor pool), and devoted the iron in his blood to help form the blade that was the Heavenly Sword.

"Our victory is ordained by the heavens themselves," the Sword-Bearer claimed. "And even if it were not, it is a simple matter of probability. In order to stop what is coming, our enemy will have to be lucky every time. We, on the other hand, only have to be lucky once."

With a hungry grin, the Swordsman gunned the engine of his monobike, leading the first wave on to their eternal glory.

---

"Frackencrack," Lieutenant Lyons gasped, looking at the signature of their newfound co-worker's Battlemech on the monitors of the Mobile HQ half a kilometer west of the dam, "is that a Marauder?! I'd heard the Cassandra Jeong was loaded, but wow. It's a good thing Mr. McCord's on our side."

"Hoooo boy," Cadet Higgins groaned, "as if you weren't going all gooey for the new guy enough."

"Excuse me?" the Lieutenant bristled, "I was not 'going all gooey' for a potential ally at any point. I've just been trying to get some background information on him, to make sure he can be trusted. That's all."

"Sure," Higgins sneered, "that totally explains why you kept giving him doe-eyes all throughout the briefing, hoping he'd notice you."

"That is NOT--"

"Not that I blame you," he continued to egg her on, "Lord knows it must be lonely, being surrounded by guys who won't look at you twice because they all heard about the incident with you and the month-old Aurigan sushi stinking up the latrines for a solid week. No wonder you'd need to look for a man who didn't share a DropShip with you."

"At least my previous boyfriends weren't paid for," Lyons retorted, and Higgins' wolfish grin turned sour.

"Look, I wouldn't bother with the new guy, Lieutenant," Cadet Windham chimed in. "It sounds to me like Giggles is going to beat you to the punch. Honestly? I ship it."

"You would," Higgins rolled his eyes. "Hey Lyons, I ever tell you how I found Windham's stash of creepy fan-fiction, where Grayson Carlyle and the Kell Brothers tie up Lady Death and give her a--"

"Colonel Wayne?!" Lieutenant Lyons called out over Higgins, "Do I have permission to shoot my cadets?"

From the back of the Mobile HQ's command module, the Colonel answered, "If you can find two cadets who are better at reading sensors and comms, I'll take them around back and shoot them myself."

"Fine, fine, I'll drop it," Higgins backed off, before realizing who he was answering and adding a quick, "--sir."

"You're lucky we don't have access to the admin staff," Lyons chided Higgins. "When this is over, I'm going to bury you under so many formal complaints of inappropriate conduct that you'll--"

"Heads up, guys, time to go to work!" Cadet Windham interrupted. "Got a pretty sizeable reading on seismic sensors. Well, I don't think it's one big thing, but a whole bunch of little things."

"Do we have visual?" the Colonel asked.

"Not yet, sir," Lieutenant Lyons responded, swiveling her chair to face the controls for the Mobile HQ's NapFind camera drone. "I'm going to maneuver the drone into position, see if we can get eyes on what's coming. Maybe we're lucky and it's just some unexpected morning traffic."

Colonel Wayne keyed his comms to open a channel to the Green Knights. "Look alive, Knights. Multiple bogeys inbound. Remember: collateral damage here must be kept to a minimum. Check your targets, make each shot count."

"Eyes on the convoy, sir," Lyons said. "Count upwards of fifty technicals, wheeled and hover mostly. Looks like almost exclusively converted civvie vehicles, sir, next to no armor on any of them."

"Well, this oughta be a turkey shoot, then," Higgins grinned.

"What's a turkey?"

"No idea."

"I think it's a type of fish? Isn't that an expression, shooting turkeys in a barrel?"

"Not now, you three," Gaius cut them off. "We're on the job."

---

"Sword-Bearer, Sword-Bearer!" one of the other Swordsmen shouted over comms. "I'm seeing Battlemechs! They've got 'Mechs guarding the dam!!!"

"What kind of Battlemechs?" came the Sword-Bearer's voice.

"I....I don't know. Fucking big ones!"

The Swordsman on the monobike felt a lump in his throat. They had prepared for a token resistance. Security guards, a few armored cars, a tank or two at the most. They weren't prepared for fighting 'Mechs.

"Is it the Crimson Fists?" the Sword-Bearer asked.

"I-...I don't think so, Sword-Bearer! They're not red!"

"Gawain's Green Knights, then," he concluded. "...this changes nothing. If anything, it will make our victory that much sweeter. Now, not only will we strike at the capitalist pig-dogs, we will destroy their sell-sword mercenary prostitutes as well! Go forth, and cut down the enemies of heaven!"

The Swordsman felt the weight of the SRM on his back, and for the first time, it felt puny. Against infantry, he could cause mayhem and havoc. Against Battlemechs, he would be little more than a temporary inconvenience.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the dam looming large, and remembered his mission.

He was not there to fight with Battlemechs.

He was there to destroy that dam, and remind Espia of the wrath of heaven.

With renewed vigor, he sped his monobike forward, letting out a scream that was drowned out by the snarling engine.

They need to get lucky ever time, the Swordsman repeated to himself. We only need to get lucky once...

[Pilatus]

Raven Rivers

In the time that he had been with Colonel Wayne, Raven had encountered countless vagrants, soldiers, House armies and rival merc camps. There was a mix of the twisted and the sane in a dance as old as war itself, but what he saw massing in the distance and headed towards the Knights position was truly hard to match against any of his past experiences. Seeing the footage of the stadium attack in Yuzhny Portveyn on the holovids was one thing. He’d seen people self destruct a mech or crash a fighter kamikaze style when there was no hope left, but he knew when he first saw them that these Heavenly Sword followers were a different breed altogether. He’d never seen anyone on the field of battle that was blatantly suicidal. It was the first time and it was almost a sight to behold in itself. Almost. What a waste. He thought. He shook his head and pushed the ‘Hawk’s throttle forward firmly and pivoted the torso into a leaning run beneath him. He leaned with it in the straps. The mass of vehicles seemed to be growing even larger as a jumble of small contacts coming into the edge of his sensor screen. The Shadowhawk was in a full sprint now, the river’s edge coming up quickly in front of him, he could see water breaking over rocks in white trails as he thumbed the jump jets on the throttle and spoke into the mic: “Knights! Chain fire! Keep the trigger hot!”

The Shadowhawk soared over the river like an olympic long jumper, legs still cartwheeling as it flew. Leading the charge, far out front was some exceptionally devout member of the Sword riding a monobike that presented as good a target for landing as any and Raven wanted to make an impression on the rest of his followers. This wasn’t the supply raid. They weren’t desperate. This was the Green Knights on a contract. It was a bad day to be a suicidal lunatic. The full weight of the ‘Hawk crashed down on the roadway and skidded, breaking up the pavement. Raven thought he felt a dull thud beneath him as the mech’s footpad landed, but he figured it was probably the gas tank exploding on the bike he’d just buried under several feet of dirt, rock and asphalt. Whatever it was, he didn’t think any more about it as he cut the stick and throttle to allow the machine to slide in a crouched posture like a defensive lineman, careful of the angle of his main gun over the terrain. He raised one arm and raked the full burn time of his medium laser across a crowd of wheeled vehicles that were unable to flee from the roadway.

The resulting explosions were much larger than he anticipated, momentarily lighting up the early morning. His glance quickly narrowed. He pivoted and fired an SRM salvo into a scurrying hoverjeep that also exploded with enough force that he could see the concussion spread through the air. “They’re all loaded with explosives…” He said, twisting the Hawk’s figure slightly to dodge a rocket fired from far out of its range. Its exhaust trail curled past him and the mech’s humanoid figure resembled someone observing an annoying insect flying closeby. He leveled the AC5 and cracked off a shot into a large truck. Having loaded armor piercing rounds that were none too graciously provided by the Espian Guards during the raid, the shot punched through the cabover design with such force he thought he could see springs, rotors and the entirety of the engine and drivetrain being blown out the sides of the vehicle. “Steel Rain, load AP, target the larger trucks, they’re too overloaded to maneuver effectively.” He knew full well Aroxy’s crew would be more than elated at the prospect of a sitting duck for their hungry main gun. He continued: “Target the cab.” His face might have winced a little at the sound of the words and what it meant. One of the Von Luckner’s rounds wouldn’t punch a hole like his AC5, it would remove the cab, like a freight train hit.

It was time to move again, not that he’d been standing still. Mechwarrios didn’t last long on the front lines standing still and certainly he was not in the habit of underestimating opponents, no matter how lopsided the confrontation might have been. The whole opening exchange had only been a few seconds since he’d touched down on the south side of the river. However, he’d done what he set out to do: create a log jam along the roadway and sew some unexpected fear into the hearts of their attackers. There was some satisfaction in seeing the frantic flash of brake lights and he knew it was time to get Marit’s volleys into play. Moving again, his medium laser was back on the trigger and he washed another shot over a cadre of technicals careening past the truck’s broken carcass. He glanced at the sensor screen as he worked. Sgt Dalton and his shooters would be in position to help him with the fast movers, but he could see some disturbance on the screen clouding more vehicles in the distance and preventing him from getting a lock further out for his LRMs.

“Buckshot 1, move up. I’ll cover. This isn’t their main push." He squinted a bit at the sensor screen between his legs, comparing it to what he could see with the naked eye in thermal view. “They’re using some kind of drones…” He lamented his aging vision, having to look harder like some old codger studying the morning paper. A younger version of himself would have had no trouble seeing what was going on. The drones wafted in the air uneasily like they were overloaded and the sensor screen made more sense. “We need to take’em out so Giggles can open up.”

For the time being he knew Marit could target whatever he could get a sensor lock on, but the vehicles were too small and random, more suited to himself and Sgt Dalton’s troopers and wouldn’t make the most out of her lethal volleys. It would be like swatting flies with a sledgehammer. He arced his turn, firing as he went and tapping on the jump jets making the ‘Hawk almost skip over the terrain and being careful to stay out of Aroxy’s kill zone, keeping the insanity contained in a crossfire between them. He didn’t bother giving orders to Jon, because Jon wasn’t a Knight. He was just there. Raven felt like they didn’t even need him and the fact that he had some hot rod mech was unsurprising. It seemed to fit Cassandra’s air of extravagance like another piece of jewelry or designer clothing. He fired another burst from his AC5 that folded a light truck in half and kept moving.

@Starlance
@Bork Lazer

[Pilatus]

Reya & Ingrid

A strange insect, somewhere between a beetle and a long-legged crane fly, buzzed around Ingrid's face. She swatted at it passively, before managing to line up a hand and expertly kill it with a hard flick mid-flight. The thing was sent careening with its last wing beats, and then brushed aside with the rush of air that accompanied one of the many passing cars along that main thoroughfare. To avoid most of the local guard, they had to go on a very circuitous path, but once this concrete bridge had been crossed it wasn't going to be much further.

Getting here wasn't hard. Their illustrious employer hadn't lied, the papers she provided were good. The few times contact with random jackboots had been inevitable, IDs flashed, Ingrid shrank and acted properly fearful, and they didn't seem to question it any more than that. There were a few more blocks to go, and inevitably that was going to be the worst of it, but if Reya had something to worry about it wasn't her parter in espionage.

Nothing could be done about the accent; on the ride to the district she had briefly attempted a more local dialect and plainly failed. It wasn't going to be too much of a problem, though. Even if they were far out from Lyran space, the ones that could afford to travel to the other end of the Sphere had the cultural pride to keep their accents and identity. Thus, though still too noblesse to oblige a more naturalized persona, she wasn't worried.

What she lacked in skill, though, that was made up for with her seemingly natural talent at acting. The moment she had stepped out of the car, she stopped with the rigid movement that always seemed like she was a few steps away from stamping out a military march into the grey and brown mud beneath her boots, and loosened her gait to the point she seemed like she could be a normal person. In knit cap and heavy coat, borrowed pants and mittens, she looked like she could be any random nobody walking the streets of Nui Awa. Still uncharacteristically shivered whenever the wind picked up, perhaps, but natural otherwise.

Recovering from that same quake, Ingrid conversed with Wyatt, not too loud or quiet - "Let me put it this way: the man had already fallen down stairs in front of everyone while sober, multiple times by that point. We were worried that if he was going to go walk down 30 flights of stairs while blind drunk, he'd reach the bottom floor as a pile of broken bones."

She had regailed her with a relatively uninteresting story about a very clumsy man she once worked with - sanitized to being a fellow office drone, rather than whatever military personnel or posh nobleman he might've been in reality. "A few others and I, we actually managed to go up 10 flights in the time it took him to stagger down one, just to make sure he didn't die. We were seriously worried, and it was a good thing he forgot about it by the morning, because he was the kind of person to act sullen if anyone showed him any kind of support. It's a miracle he got that high up in...the company."

—----------------------

Reya was feeling exceptionally satisfied with herself as she walked alongside Ingrid on the streets of North Nui Awa. Not because the mission felt more natural to her strengths, i.e.: getting what she wanted with words or manipulation rather than bullets or laser beams, but because in addition to their documentation, Cassandra provided a surprisingly remarkable selection of modern Espian fashion for them to choose in order to blend in along with something akin to a concierge, whose job it was to make sure their selections were satisfactory- and that’s when Reya remembered.

When they had first arrived on Espia, one of the more obscure urban legends that she uncovered from the locals was that Espia was the actual home of SPHERE magazine. A popular Inner Sphere gossip and fashion journal that some of its more critical targets might have regarded as a rag due to its less than flattering tones towards their wardrobe decisions. Reya had glanced at the magazine from time to time when she was younger and in college though its brand of salacious commentary was not exactly smiled-upon reading material within the Combine. The whole periodical was ghost written, for obvious reasons, but having made the connection just on her naked intuition, particularly with the significant pains made to conceal the true identity of its chief editor, made the knowledge much more satisfying. She doubted anyone else had figured it out, or cared, but it meant their new “sponsor” was exceptionally more connected than she had let on and was holding out on the Colonel. Of course Reya couldn’t be completely sure about her hunch, but she knew when was right about something.

Wearing the sweater dress and boots she’d picked out along with her coat and leggings and her hair tied in something other than the broken ponytail of the last few weeks, Reya was sure she could have passed by the guards at some of the checkpoints without any papers. Cassandra’s representative had tried to withhold a scowl at Ingrid’s bland choices, but seemed much more approving of Reya’s ensemble and the two of them presented a surprisingly convincing contrast. She mused about how Tarak would like it, but then rolled her eyes at the thought of herself. Unlike Ingrid, she wasn’t acting, but the image of the two of them reflected in a passing glass storefront reminded her of another realization that was steadily emerging in the back of her psyche. It was a view of her two selves: Her old self wearing designer clothes and strolling through a wealthy business district and her other self, the one who had felt the wave of chaos in her heart when she’d nearly been killed on the raid and the one playing mother to a child that wasn’t her own in a nearly broken camp of mercenaries on the run. She looked down at her wrist where a single charm dangled loosely on a bracelet. Maneki Neko, the happy cat, smiled up at her and was originally a gift she’d given to Sunny, but it didn’t particularly seem like the young girl’s style. Other than Never Ending Hearts, Sunny was still too young and tomboyish for jewelry. As they began cleaning up to leave the cave, she had given it back to wear on the mission. Reya was beginning to wonder about the type of person she was becoming and if it would be good enough to watch over the girl.

In the time she had been with the Knights, never had she heard Ingrid talk so much. It was as if her shorter partner had banter and stories saved up for weeks and Reya figured that perhaps her work on the Ostroc had earned a measure of trust from the other woman that might have been lacking before. She just listened thoughtfully and took in their surroundings. As they crossed the long bridge she thought about Marit, Raven and Aroxy, far down river and likewise Tarak and Ziska. A saltwater breeze moved under her hair and she pushed it away from her face. “I’m sorry.” She said after a long pause following one of Ingrid’s stories. “Sorry about how I was… before all this.” Her tone denoted a clear sense of shame and she looked at some of the buildings on the riverside as if there was something written there that she could read and say more, but there wasn’t anything else. She wasn’t sure how Ingrid would react, but it felt right to let the words out.

—----------------------

Though Ingrid continued with the story as Reya reminisced and pined - eventually devolving into a strange tale of several “lower-ranking workers” having to impersonate “office security” and convince the drunkard that he had been arrested on charges of corporate espionage, and then keep him in a side room with guards armed only with spray bottles - she slowed her speech. Only a little at first, but as she noticed her partner’s continued slipping away, the way she craned her head down and around and huffed, she was clearly offput. By the time she spoke out loud, she had started walking a little slower as well, and almost stopped as they cleared the bridge - not too long to go.
“I’m sorry?” she parroted, with just a hint of annoyance but more clearly made out of concern. “It’s fine, I can shut up. I suppose it’s not the most entertaining story,” she holds up a gloved hand, “so don’t worry, you heard most of it already. If…alcohol’s a sore subject or something, we can move onto something else.”

If this kind of consolation sounded awkward, that’s because it was. She clearly understood something was wrong, but she didn’t seem to know what, or what to do about it properly. As they came to a crosswalk, the Duchess pressed down the button once (not the rapid slamming most city-folk seemed hard-wired to perform), and they stopped. She tried not to stare at her too hard.

—----------------------

“No, it’s fine… I shouldn't have brought it up when we were so close.” Reya replied, glancing back at her partner with a dismissive, half-smile and shake of her head. It was unusual to sense a hint of concern in the other woman’s voice. Ingrid didn’t seem to be following which conversely made Reya feel somewhat relieved and somehow a little bit worse about herself. She never apologized for anything and it seemed Ingrid didn’t know anything about accepting apologies either. They were indeed quite a pair.

Standing at the crossing with another block and corner to turn before they arrived at the Diamond, as the locals called it. Reya proceeded to straighten the ensemble of the Duchess a bit just as if Ingrid had asked and to change the subject. Her hands gently evened up the lapels. She actually had been paying attention to the strange story. Not doing so was simply impossible. Her mind absorbed information constantly. From the characters in the “corporate espionage” tale, to the design of the buttons on the jacket or the street and shop names they passed- no information was too trivial to be overlooked and still her mind wandered like it needed more to be satiated. Ever since the run from the capital, her internal thoughts had been overwhelmingly negative and she countered it by constantly keeping busy on the Knights’ equipment or watching after Sunny. Taking a walk to the meeting target was giving her way too much time to think.

“There…” She said with finality and a small smirk as she minutely adjusted the knit cap so that it was perfectly centered on Ingrid’s head. “Much better.” The crossing sign changed for them to pass.

—----------------------

Something clearly chafed Ingrid, because a bit of the usual standoffish hostility was shown with the flash of a scoff as she was dolled up. Not much, but just enough to tell that further adjustments weren’t appreciated. As the crosslight started barking the order to walk in multiple languages, and she was freed from Reya’s perfecting touch, she didn’t bristle so much.

“You don’t need to worry much.” Her previously cheerful tone had soured a little. “It’s just a drink between friends. Between us two, you’re the more accomplished speaker.” She added “I’m just not good around people” as an afterthought, less a truth and more to make it sound ‘casual’ in her head. “You need to be up and alert if we’re going to have a fun time. Besides, I’m paying, so you better enjoy it. If anything gets between you and a good drink, I’ll be there to make things easy on you.” Don’t worry, I’ll shoot anyone who causes problems for you. Ingrid clearly couldn’t think of anything more comforting.

By that point, they had reached their destination. Not many drunkards seen hanging outside, and someone must’ve been cleaning up the vomit, which altogether made it appear one of the nicer establishments in this city. Ingrid’s eyes briefly passed over the tinted windows - it seemed busy on the inside, and the noise of loud conversation could be heard through the metal and glass doors, which given the state of things shouldn’t be that surprising. People need their drinks.
Ingrid said “Come along.”

—----------------------

Happy with having reset the Duchess to factory settings Reya gave a smile back at Ingrid’s attempt to withhold a full scoff. The previous conversational topic was forgotten and they crossed the street.

In her mind she had an image of a “dive” bar based on research and then she had the description happily offered up by Ziska later after the briefing. What appeared in front of them was something of a mix of the two. A couple patrons on the outside had the steady sway of a few drinks in their stance, but the venue itself was fairly clean and fit the current situation on Espia appealing to both the businessman and the soldier, however the whole establishment was smaller than she had envisioned. Back home on Tabayama, she had walk-in closets that were bigger. Her eyes drifted up to a large billboard for Comstar Financial Services then back towards the bar itself when she noticed the imperfections in the wall. Items not the result of erosion, but tiny and purposeful. She looked closer, then she narrowed her glance then she stopped walking. Her arm snapped out to grab the back of Ingrid’s jacket sleeve firm enough to dishevel what she had just straightened up, but her eyes stayed fixated. “Stop.” She said flatly. It was a command, not a request.

—----------------------

Ready to get in and get to work - surely, it had been some time since she had to use the diplomatic parts of her body, this would be a welcome return to form for the ex-noble - Ingrid was steeling herself. Just a little further, as she had done all she could to prepare since the moment the mission briefing had finished, but that level of obsession as normal for her.

With that in mind, it was a miracle that she didn’t snap to and cause something bad to happen the moment she was pulled aside. She did yank back, freeing her arm before Reya could do it herself, and looked up at her “attacker” in surprise and then a brief hint of confusion. ”What?”

Quickly, though, she followed Reya’s gaze…

—----------------------

Reya looked, then she looked harder and then she looked again, paying no attention to Ingrid at all. Her face was like stone, like an archeologist carefully surveying the uncovered work of some long lost treasure as if they couldn’t believe it was real and right in front of them. She touched the carvings, letting her fingertips judge the depth while simultaneously coming to the realization that she thought she might be sick to her stomach. Unlike an archeological discovery however, these carvings were fresh and wanting to be found, at least for those that knew how to look. Her lips quivered and the roaring torrent of computation that was her mind simply locked up at the data being provided by her eyes.

At some point she could feel Ingrid’s confusion burning into the side of her face and she took a step back, but it felt like her legs were going to give way beneath her. Her hand searched behind her for something for the rest of her body to sit and not make a scene by collapsing, only finding the cold touch of a streetlight that she leaned against with great relief.

Her countenance was completely aghast, wide-eyed, like she had seen a ghost.

—----------------------

Ingrid kept close to her side, only sparing a glance at the markings before Reya’s reaction became worse, and as she staggered back she kept pace with her. Immediately, her mind was turned away from the inscription and toward the rest of the world. Imagined assassins, the unfortunate dead of the war must exist at every corner…

And as Reya caught her breath, slowly, she came down from her own high of panic - there was nobody here who had a knife under their coat, nor a horror to be seen. Ingrid looked at the inscription one more time, and confirmed that it really was all that had bothered her. Unbecoming of her assumed persona, she lingered on it for a moment, and then groaned in disappointment.

Positioning herself and raising Reya up a little, trying to make it seem like she was merely helping a friend up, she grumbled under her breath: ”Get it together! It’s nothing! We’re right here and we’re expected, and I need you to work with me.”

She didn’t slap her, step on or foot or anything like that to psyche her out, but her grip on the underside of her arm was tight. ”I don’t know what it is that’s got you like this, but can’t it wait?”

—----------------------

Reya had to stand there for a moment, letting Ingrid pretend to be helping her before she tried to manage her composure again. No one seemed to have paid them any mind. They were outside a bar after all. It was still a while before she could look away. However, her partner’s impatience struck a nerve and she wanted to bark at her to shut up. She clenched a fist. Anger twinged at the edge of her glance and her emotions were all over the place. Ingrid hadn’t watched her best friend get exploded or spent the last several weeks being a mother to a child that wasn’t her own or going on missions and repairing mechs herself. It wasn’t the end of the world if she could just get two-fucking-minutes. Get it together Reya!. A voice barked at her fiercely from the back of her mind. It wasn’t Ingrid’s fault. Ingrid was just, Ingrid. She was focused on the mission and that was the right thing. Reya let out a long breath and tried to relax. Why she didn’t feel happy, she couldn’t explain. It still felt more like fear, like she was dealing with something sepulchral. It was nearly a physical feeling in her chest, like a ghost had stabbed her right through the heart.

“Lena is alive.” She said finally, but didn’t look at Ingrid. She already knew the other woman was going to think she was crazy, but the words were out there now and she wouldn’t blame Ingrid if she did. It was probably the last thing she expected to hear. Reya still didn’t believe it herself. She stepped towards the wall again and put her back to the markings so they were right over her shoulder. Well, we might as well be academic about it…. Something told her not to point them out. There was no telling who was watching. She finally looked back at her partner and tried her best to explain: “These markings are what’s called ‘low sign’. I know this because it’s a way that Lena, Diego and Sunny would communicate on their home planet. Lena was my best friend, she explained to me how it works and how it’s unique to them, like a family cipher… Diego is with the others at Fort Tie Shan, Sunny is back moving with the camp.” She paused, took in a breath and exhaled slowly, wiping one eye dry. “These markings are only a few days old.” She crossed her arms and looked back and forth briefly and tried to swallow a lump in her throat. “The final sign in the sequence is Lena’s initials, ‘LVK’... but there’s a message in the other markings about a woman with green hair that speaks in code. I think that might be our contact.”

—----------------------

The explanation was enough to calm down the impatient fire beside her. As she went on in detail, Ingrid progressively shrunk, retreating from her flash of anger and into a quiet, awkward kind of stupor. She had let go of her by this time, and crossed her arms as she viewed the inscriptions once more.

A veritable scholar she was, having learned three languages to fluency and had done good work with Latin and Japanese before the circumstances that lead to the removal of her House, but this ‘low’ speak was indeed too low for her to have even heard of. She assumed, at first, it was some cryptic insult or threat written in whatever street cant they used around these parts.

Aside from her puzzling having been cleared up, though, Ingrid felt just a bit of sympathy, though it would be some time before she’d explain why this was the case.“I see.”She took a breath and paused, looking now at Reya and her own flush of emotions. Then, a simple nod. “I see…””

“I have…spoken out of turn,”” she said with some difficulty, and then more as she added a formal “Forgive me for my impudence. You had an acceptable reason to be concerned.”” Ingrid, of course, was the arbiter of whether or not a breakdown like that could be justified or frivolous. Self-appointed, naturally.

She let the ambiance of cars, soft rain and muffled conversation fill in the silence for a minute, before a sigh led her to say, “She’s in there. The contact. A better chance at finding your Lena than anywhere else in this world, I’d bet. Whenever you’re ready.”” She stepped away, moving toward the door. At least now Reya could choose whether it was a moment of dire importance or not.

[Pilatus]

Jonathan McCord

Jon smirked a bit at Marit’s comment. “Nah, I wouldn’t try it.” He said, answering her question about crossing the dam. His tone was a little lighter and the drawl in his voice was more evident on the radio. There was a roadway across the top of the structure that would accommodate vehicles. He reckoned a Flea or a Locust could probably scamper across, but he didn’t know of anyone trying anything heavy and she was only five tonnes lighter than him. He was on the verge of a slick remark about her coming and trying to take the stick from him when the Heavenly Sword decided to show up and derail his trash talking. He set the master-arm making his weapons hot and glanced again at his watch: Almost shift-change for the dam. Right on time. He thought. A couple more small tablet-size screens came to life around him that had been fastened inside the cockpit as the whole machine “woke-up” from its napping, passive state, feeding him more information that had been curated according to need over time. However, he reached past those high-tech offerings for a simple handheld radio. The same as the ones carried by the dam security crew. The shift lead spoke just before he could hit the push-to-talk button.

“Mudcrutch, this is AVC3!” The voice crackled with a hint of excitement bleeding through the corporate veneer. The number three in the callsign denoted the third shift. “Got a copy?”

“Yeah, I see’em. Stay cool. If you see something, call it out and I’ll help.” He clipped the radio back behind his head.

Raven had entered the fray first with a circus-stunt display of jumping the river, but to his credit had done a fair job of sewing chaos among the attackers. There were a lot of them and at a glance of the sensor screen, Jon had to concede that if he had to take on the mission solo, it could have been an unholy shitshow. The Knights’ opener reminded him of an old Taurian battle doctrine. A tenet he knew as he watched the column of Heavenly Sword vehicles scatter in disarray, Sgt. Dalton would be thinking as well: Attack the enemy hard enough and fast enough and he will forget his loyalty and his numbers to try and save himself from the wrath about to sit down upon him. Exploding vehicles pockmarked the landscape blooming in the early morning like orange flowers from the still dark terrain. Explosive echoes reverberated through the river valley and he could see the muzzle flash of some of the Buckshot Boys heavier machine guns raking arcs of instant death into vehicles never designed for frontline combat. It was as Raven described. They were all loaded for bear and it slowed them into a killing field that they never expected. He shook his head a little.

With the Von Luckner opening up, the Knights had effectively trapped the column into an arrowhead shaped ambush that used the river to help tighten the noose- It was one less place to run and a couple vehicles had already lost control and crashed into it. Jon knew Raven was pushing the angle, trying to arch around and keep up the crossfire but he was particularly interested in whatever was stopping Marit from firing. Like her, his shots were wasted on small trucks and cars, though he was curious if he could clip a dirtbike on a dead run from well over half a kilometer. He zoomed in, looking past Raven. The Marauder’s torso turned slowly in the dark and the reticle over Jon’s eye separated as he disengaged the arm-lock with a small motion of his fingers like he was readying a double-set trigger on an ancient rifle not unlike the one painted on the side of his machine. He took a slow breath and let it out, relaxing in the seat. It was still hard to see the drones with the mix of darting headlights and explosions staring back at him in the narrowed zoom window. Only a flex of his fingertips moved the sighted reticle upwards. It would be a PPC shot. A large truck came apart in a massive plume and he could see the underside of their saucer-like shape, wafting unsteadily in the morning breeze and dumping something as they moved, the particles glistened in the firelight. “I got it Knights, throttle back.” He said. “Danger close.” The crosshairs lazily passed over the drone and his hand on the column tightened over the trigger.

For a seasoned mechwarrior the sound of a PPC shot was familiar. The flash came first in a high velocity bolt followed by the sonance, like a high caliber cannon shot combined with the jagged soundwaves of a tesla coil. The pinpoint arrowhead of the burst tended to make a unique spectacle upon impact spreading over the target as the excess energy was dispersed even though it was a precision weapon. For the uninitiated however, it was a vision of awe and terror so incomprehensible in its shock presence through the dark of the river valley that the majesty of the Celestial Throne suddenly felt distant like a god that had unexpectedly turned its gaze away from the faithful. The first Gossamer drone in the line, supplemented like all the others with excess hydrogen gas to improve its lifting ability, was a fireball before the hateful techno-static report of the shot arrived. Its payload of fine metal filaments meant to disrupt sensors instead became a hellish molten rain that melted and burned into whatever or whoever was unfortunate enough to be nearby. The air crackled unnaturally amid agonized screams before the next shot arrived scorching the air again in electric fire.

Jon watched the second drone erupt in a shower of burning rain. A quick glance down showed the sensor screen starting to clear as the weapon cycle alert chirped in his ear that the first barrel was ready to fire again. Gently he rotated the crosshair for another shot. It was barely even a perceptible motion. The channel buzzed with Sgt. Dalton giving orders on the ground and he thought he could hear another Knight commando shout something along the lines of Don’t shoot let’em burn! which he found satisfying. Still, other than brief glimpses of their distant silhouettes in the chaotic light, there was too much general mayhem for him to get a good look at the next pair of drones farther down. If the operators had any sense about them they would start moving them apart, but he also knew they couldn’t get too separated or they wouldn’t be able to cover their allies from the Knights’ sensors. He keyed the mic: “Buckshot, pop a flare to the east. Help us get a visual and we can take out the rest.”

The Marauder’s torso rotated again, only slightly, before the characteristic muzzle flash of his AC5 briefly lit up the the air around him and the shot went down range only arcing slightly in the distance at the edge of its range and crashing through the backseat of Burro support truck attempting to train its machine guns on some of Dalton’s troopers.

@Starlance
@Bork Lazer

[Starlance]

”There they are! Heading one-seven-three, about 1500 meters out and coming fast.” Marit called out to her lancemates and the tank, hastily putting on seat straps she’d undone to make the wait more comfortable. Arming Archie’s weapons and opening the missile doors, her mighty steed stood up, bristling with missiles and started making his way to the riverbank. Marit used the time it would take the dead meat to get in missile range to divvy up the first targets between her launchers in her mind and deciding on who the next unlucky set would be, prioritizing anything that looked like it could store a reasonable amount of explosives in covered places and ignoring the trucks that had their beds obviously devoted to carrying weapons. A deep rumble of jump jets signaled the Shadow Hawk started its attack. ”Right bank, call out targets if you start getting swarmed.”

As Archie passed the dam, Marit switched on the loudspeakers still installed from the Knights’ policing days on Espia. ”AVC security forces, this is…” She briefly hesitated about using her name out in public. OPSEC was scripture, never know who’s listening and where their loyalties lie. ”...callsign Giggles, Gawain’s Green Knights. We’re here to protect this dam from a suspected Heavenly Sword attack, we’re on your side.” She hoped to clear any possible misunderstandings, unsure of how much the workers had been told. As the stampede approached and Rivers and Steel Rain started tearing into them to bunch them up, Marit flicked the relevant switch to enable weapons locking and the targeting reticle immediately lost its mind. ”Wha- Ah, fuck it…” She mumbled as she gave up on the LRM targeting, Archie picking up into as fast a jog as he’d manage back up a hill to get a better view of the targets for dumb firing.

She hadn’t even made it ten paces when a pair of PPC shots soared across the field and clearly hit something important. With the jamming clearing up, clear line of sight became a comfort instead of a necessity and Marit turned Archie around and back to the riverbank, switching the targeting systems back on, this time acquiring a solid lock as she winced at the Buckshot Boys’ chatter. Slowing to a crawl once she reached the water, she wiggled Archie’s foot with each step to settle it in the silt as she walked him waist-deep into the water, submerging the two additional heat sinks in the legs to further help with heat dissipation. She hoped nothing would happen that would force her to ford the river, unsure of the depth. Were rivers deep under a weir and shallow above it? Shallow under and deep above? Damn Comstar Primers could’ve mentioned that. Advancing a bit downstream, she figured that she had a margin of 90 meters where she could use both missiles and lasers, and by gods she was gonna use it. Soon two medium lasers pierced the darkness, one going low and carving up the dirt while the other one found one of the jeeps, followed by Archie’s three launchers set to chain fire and wide dispersion, their targets chosen to emulate a creeping barrage that swept through the religious traffic jam. A quick glance at the thermometer warned her that she overestimated the cooling a bit, with some of the myomer bundles already starting to show signs of cramping up. ”Do we want any of them alive for a chat?” She asked about the stated secondary objective, seeing as they were rapidly deleting their candidates.