Awesome! Looking forward to it.
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Hey, @vietmyke, just wanted to let you know it's your turn to post...
I always figured that it depended on deployment. In space, US Navy or British Fleet Air Arm ranks would best apply, but on the ground MS seem analogues to a mix between armor and infantry, the latter especially in their tactics. They wouldn't really count as aircraft because - at least during the One Year War - all but a handful of trial-production prototypes are incapable of sustained flight.
And that's fine, I'll go ahead an' change 'im.
And that's fine, I'll go ahead an' change 'im.
I will say I made my own character a Lieutenant mainly because that was Char Aznable's rank at the beginning of MSG. I also figure that given the small comparative size and relative newness of the Zeon military, promotions would have been swift. At the war's peak, they must have been chewing through officers at a decent clip, especially in the MS corps.
I'm thinking most people would be outside their Suits while in transit, yes.
The IC thread will be the main thread from here on, yes.
@vietmyke
I... did not know that, actually. Good info.
I... did not know that, actually. Good info.
Alright guys! All four characters are approved, and I just made the first post. Let's roll!
UC 01/03/0080.
Near the Jaghbub Oasis, former Libya.
Appropriate music.
"Hold up! No.5's got another flat!"
Lieutenant Milo Tyranne lurched slightly in his seat as, for the third time that day, the convoy came to a halt, the snarl of diesel turbines, clatter of tracks and whine of hover fans ceasing.
Sighing deeply, the young pilot let himself lean forward until his forehead "thunked" against the broad dashboard of the Samson-class heavy transport truck he rode in.
"I'm beginning to see why we lost the war."
Beside him, the truck's driver cast a sardonic grin over at his morose CO, reclining in his seat and lacing his fingers behind his head. A fellow veteran of the Supply Corps, Sergeant Delfin Rogers dwarfed Milo at 6' 8", a rare example of above-average stature among the spacenoid population. Being exceptionally tall was a rarity in space; the early colonists had nearly all been at or below average height, due to the limitations of early space travel, and thus their descendants were typically likewise.
"I'll admit, sir, that our tire technology leaves something to be desired." The mammoth driver said. "But you have to admit, we're luckier than most; we have spares at least!"
At the other end of the height scale, Milo stood only 5' 2", unusually short even for a spacenoid, with a slender, almost gaunt build, messy dark brown hair and thick, and green eyes behind thick, wide glasses which gave them an owlish quality. Strictly speaking, he had failed the enlistment physical exams, but had originally applied for what was essentially a desk job in the pre-war period, and thus his inadequacies were waived. To his credit, he had not let his posting to Earth slow him down much; the Principality had needed everyone they could get, and Milo had stepped up.
He looked over at Delfin, head still resting against the dashboard, and gave another sigh before straightening back up and popping his neck.
"Yeah, I guess that's true."
There was one advantage to being in a supply unit, Milo mused to himself; they usually had what they needed. This, Milo knew, was not the experience of most units; especially late in the war, there had been shortages of damn near everything, and the young pilot had observed the often desperate supply situations of many front-line combat units first hand.
The Zeon invasion of Earth had been expected to go quickly; once Europe and North America were seized, it was expected that the Feddies would capitulate quickly. The war had dragged on, however, and as it did, the inadequacies of certain Zeon equipment had been made clear.
To be sure, things like Mobile Suits worked wonderfully, as they should given how much care and attention had been put into their adaptation for ground-side operations. Other items, though, mundane things less obvious but no less indispensable, proved less so. Zeon aircraft, for example, had almost always proved inferior to their Federation counterparts. The case-less ammunition of early-war Zeon assault rifles had proved sensitive to humidity and temperature. Constantly, Zeon engineers underestimated the challenges of keeping moisture and dirt out of sensitive machinery.
And, most poignant at the moment, Zeon pneumatic tire technology - especially for large and heavy vehicles like the Samson - had always been far behind that of the Federation.
Milo un-clipped his seat-belt, opening the door of the massive truck and letting a blast of hot, dry air into the cool, air-conditioned cabin. Life in a space colony, with its rigidly controlled weather patterns and planned landscapes, had not prepared him for the rugged conditions on Earth, but he liked to think he had adapted well.
"I'm going to go stretch my legs for a few minutes." He said to Delfin as he left the cab. "Any idea where we are?"
Delfin, wincing slightly at the heat from outside, glanced down at a map readout on the dashboard. Frowning, he tapped the screen, and shook his head.
"I know we crossed into Libya earlier today, but the satellite navigation is dark; looks like we've entered another Minovsky Particle field."
Milo frowned.
During the war, Minovsky Radiation had been used heavily by both sides to blank out the electromagnetic spectrum, rendering useless all related technologies for communication and remote detection. Radar, radio and microwave communication did not work except at short range, and Minovsky Particle fields even created a distortion effect in space, similar to atmospheric effects, reducing engagements to visual range detection and combat and rendering most weapons dependent on on-board electronic guidance ineffective. Even infrared heat-seeking missiles were no longer worth it, as their relatively delicate circuitry required thick shielding to function in a Minovsky Particle environment, increasing the cost and labor involved in such devices prohibitively.
In space, Minovsky Radiation could linger for up to a month, though on Earth, shifting air currents usually dissipated such clouds within a few days. It had been three days since the end of the war, and Milo figured that given the often strong winds of the desert, there had been more than enough time to erase the invisible aftermath of any eleventh hour conflict from the last days of fighting.
"That's weird..."
The young supply officer stepped out of the cab onto the truck's gigantic fender, shading his eyes as he looked out across the rocky, sandy expanse of the desert. A few minutes before, the convoy had entered a downward slope into a deep depression, which Milo suspected might have a sub-sea level oasis at its bottom where they could make camp and consult their charts.
For three days, the group had been trying to find a Federation garrison - or even patrol - that they could surrender to. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but Milo knew that orders were orders; to fight on now was to do so without the support of their government back at Side 3, and possibly to make things harder for their comrades who simply wanted to go home.
Home.
Tugging on gloves to insulate his hands against the burning metal rungs of the ladder on the side of the truck, Milo descended to the sand, not yet sweating in the dry heat. His mind swam with nostalgia; it had been just over a year since he had been back to the Principality of Zeon; now the Republic of Zeon, once again, if Federation broadcasts were to be believed. It would be good to go back there; even if he were returning defeated, he would see his family again, a privilege millions of his countrymen would never receive.
He looked out at the dunes, and shuddered. For all he knew, the dead of three world wars lay buried just beneath his feet, comrades in arms to the countless Zeon and Federation troops who had joined them over the past 12 months.
His gaze turned back to look at the convoy.
I wonder how the other pilots are doing?
Near the Jaghbub Oasis, former Libya.
Appropriate music.
"Hold up! No.5's got another flat!"
Lieutenant Milo Tyranne lurched slightly in his seat as, for the third time that day, the convoy came to a halt, the snarl of diesel turbines, clatter of tracks and whine of hover fans ceasing.
Sighing deeply, the young pilot let himself lean forward until his forehead "thunked" against the broad dashboard of the Samson-class heavy transport truck he rode in.
"I'm beginning to see why we lost the war."
Beside him, the truck's driver cast a sardonic grin over at his morose CO, reclining in his seat and lacing his fingers behind his head. A fellow veteran of the Supply Corps, Sergeant Delfin Rogers dwarfed Milo at 6' 8", a rare example of above-average stature among the spacenoid population. Being exceptionally tall was a rarity in space; the early colonists had nearly all been at or below average height, due to the limitations of early space travel, and thus their descendants were typically likewise.
"I'll admit, sir, that our tire technology leaves something to be desired." The mammoth driver said. "But you have to admit, we're luckier than most; we have spares at least!"
At the other end of the height scale, Milo stood only 5' 2", unusually short even for a spacenoid, with a slender, almost gaunt build, messy dark brown hair and thick, and green eyes behind thick, wide glasses which gave them an owlish quality. Strictly speaking, he had failed the enlistment physical exams, but had originally applied for what was essentially a desk job in the pre-war period, and thus his inadequacies were waived. To his credit, he had not let his posting to Earth slow him down much; the Principality had needed everyone they could get, and Milo had stepped up.
He looked over at Delfin, head still resting against the dashboard, and gave another sigh before straightening back up and popping his neck.
"Yeah, I guess that's true."
There was one advantage to being in a supply unit, Milo mused to himself; they usually had what they needed. This, Milo knew, was not the experience of most units; especially late in the war, there had been shortages of damn near everything, and the young pilot had observed the often desperate supply situations of many front-line combat units first hand.
The Zeon invasion of Earth had been expected to go quickly; once Europe and North America were seized, it was expected that the Feddies would capitulate quickly. The war had dragged on, however, and as it did, the inadequacies of certain Zeon equipment had been made clear.
To be sure, things like Mobile Suits worked wonderfully, as they should given how much care and attention had been put into their adaptation for ground-side operations. Other items, though, mundane things less obvious but no less indispensable, proved less so. Zeon aircraft, for example, had almost always proved inferior to their Federation counterparts. The case-less ammunition of early-war Zeon assault rifles had proved sensitive to humidity and temperature. Constantly, Zeon engineers underestimated the challenges of keeping moisture and dirt out of sensitive machinery.
And, most poignant at the moment, Zeon pneumatic tire technology - especially for large and heavy vehicles like the Samson - had always been far behind that of the Federation.
Milo un-clipped his seat-belt, opening the door of the massive truck and letting a blast of hot, dry air into the cool, air-conditioned cabin. Life in a space colony, with its rigidly controlled weather patterns and planned landscapes, had not prepared him for the rugged conditions on Earth, but he liked to think he had adapted well.
"I'm going to go stretch my legs for a few minutes." He said to Delfin as he left the cab. "Any idea where we are?"
Delfin, wincing slightly at the heat from outside, glanced down at a map readout on the dashboard. Frowning, he tapped the screen, and shook his head.
"I know we crossed into Libya earlier today, but the satellite navigation is dark; looks like we've entered another Minovsky Particle field."
Milo frowned.
During the war, Minovsky Radiation had been used heavily by both sides to blank out the electromagnetic spectrum, rendering useless all related technologies for communication and remote detection. Radar, radio and microwave communication did not work except at short range, and Minovsky Particle fields even created a distortion effect in space, similar to atmospheric effects, reducing engagements to visual range detection and combat and rendering most weapons dependent on on-board electronic guidance ineffective. Even infrared heat-seeking missiles were no longer worth it, as their relatively delicate circuitry required thick shielding to function in a Minovsky Particle environment, increasing the cost and labor involved in such devices prohibitively.
In space, Minovsky Radiation could linger for up to a month, though on Earth, shifting air currents usually dissipated such clouds within a few days. It had been three days since the end of the war, and Milo figured that given the often strong winds of the desert, there had been more than enough time to erase the invisible aftermath of any eleventh hour conflict from the last days of fighting.
"That's weird..."
The young supply officer stepped out of the cab onto the truck's gigantic fender, shading his eyes as he looked out across the rocky, sandy expanse of the desert. A few minutes before, the convoy had entered a downward slope into a deep depression, which Milo suspected might have a sub-sea level oasis at its bottom where they could make camp and consult their charts.
For three days, the group had been trying to find a Federation garrison - or even patrol - that they could surrender to. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but Milo knew that orders were orders; to fight on now was to do so without the support of their government back at Side 3, and possibly to make things harder for their comrades who simply wanted to go home.
Home.
Tugging on gloves to insulate his hands against the burning metal rungs of the ladder on the side of the truck, Milo descended to the sand, not yet sweating in the dry heat. His mind swam with nostalgia; it had been just over a year since he had been back to the Principality of Zeon; now the Republic of Zeon, once again, if Federation broadcasts were to be believed. It would be good to go back there; even if he were returning defeated, he would see his family again, a privilege millions of his countrymen would never receive.
He looked out at the dunes, and shuddered. For all he knew, the dead of three world wars lay buried just beneath his feet, comrades in arms to the countless Zeon and Federation troops who had joined them over the past 12 months.
His gaze turned back to look at the convoy.
I wonder how the other pilots are doing?
@AmongHeroesAlready approved it.
Just waiting for one more profile from someone else before we can start.
Just waiting for one more profile from someone else before we can start.
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