Bork Lazer

COLD PLAGUE

“ I repeat again, come out with your hands behind your head or we’ll be forced to use lethal force -,” The sound of a gunshot erupting made Omar drop the radio. Sucking in a breathe, he grasped his pistol firmly with both hands and ran towards the front of the gas station. He didn’t know who fired the first shot but he wasn’t keen with leaving Mira alone in there by herself. His boots splashed apart the rivers of rainwater that were beginning to inundate the streets, soaking the scuffs of his woolen jeans.

Once he was at the door, he could hear muffled sounds of commotion. With one hand still on the grip of pistol, the door opened with a quiet whine. Omar pushed it enough just so the edge of the door touched the lip of the bell. Immediately, Omar could hear someone shouting in a coarse, uneven voice. Male. Probably in his late 20s or early 30s. He took a peek through the crack and briefly saw a broad shouldered figure in a hoodie waving a pump-action shotgun around.

“Not a chance!,” The man spoke out. “ You make one more move towards me and I’ll paint his fucking brains all over the counter, you hear me?!”

“ Please, sir….,” A heavily lisped voice whimpered out loud. “ I’m willing to help you with your situation but you have to believe-”

There was a cry of pain and then, the sound of a shell being re-racked into a shotgun. “ You shut up if you know what’s good for you, old man.”

Alright. That was enough. The sound of lightning split the sky above and Omar used the opportunity to push open the door quietly as to not spook the robber. He didn’t want to have to fill in on the incident report about how the owner was missing half his head. The robber was still looking in the direction of wherever Mira was and didn’t notice Omar’s pistol pointed a few meters away from his head.

“ Hands on your head right now!” The robber turned his head towards Omar in surprise. This close, he could see the straw blonde hair poking out of his hood. A cherokee blue bandana was wrapped around his mouth. Freckles dotted the underside of his shadowed grey eyes. “ Put the shotgun on the counter slowly and step away from the hostage. You’re surrounded.”

The robber shifted and bounced on his feet. His movements reminded Omar when he watched mice struggle to escape the mouse traps his mom had laid around the house. “ You’ll have to do something for me first.”

Shit. Now wasn’t a good time for negotiations. He barely passed that course when the NJPD made it mandatory. Omar signed inwardly, still putting on the face of consummate professionalism as his finger rested on the trigger.

“ Put your shotgun down on the table and we can talk.”

“ You’ll just cuff me, man.” The robber scoffed, still pointing his shotgun down at the man below him. “ You’ll listen to what I have to say and then, we’ll talk.”

Omar’s fingers danced on the pistol grip, contemplating the actions he could take. The man was on edge, on the verge of breaking. Even if he’d managed to shoot him, a mis-fire from the shotgun could still happen. Talking him seemed like the best distraction for Mira to catch the robber off guard.

“ Alright. Start talking,” Omar nodded. The robber rolled his shoulders, lowering the shotgun slightly away from the shopkeeper, before speaking.

“ My little bro….” The robber’s voice trailed off. “ He’s now sick with the same bug that’s been passing around. I can’t afford a check up at the ER for her. I need him to be checked up at the doc right now.”

“You can’t cover it under insurance?”

The robber shook his head in frustration and shakily replied back.

“ I can’t afford insurance, asshole,” The robber choked back a swear. A pang of sympathy ran through Omar’s heart as he momentarily lowered his pistol before raising it back up. His parents would’ve never forgiven him if he’d failed to take care of Omid and he sure as hell didn’t want to know how he would be able to handle facing the loss of his brother.

“ How old’s your brother?, Omar said softly.

“ 7,” The robber gulped guiltily, eyes shifting towards the left of the store where another door was located. “ I brought him with me. He’s holed up in the staff room on his DS. Your partner can go over there to verify and check it out for you.”

“ You heard all that, Mira?” Omar asked out loud, pistol still trained on the man’s head. “ I’ll keep point. You can check it to see if his story matches up.”

COLD PLAGUE

Well, there went any hope of a quiet afternoon.

With a note of lazy reluctance, Omar obeyed Mira’s command and pulled the receiver close to his mouth. His other hand opened the front drawer and throws a box of tissues onto Mira’s coffee-soaken lap. “ Dispatch, this is Zero-Eight-Five-Two. Ten-Four, copy.” The line chittered with static haze before a clear voice parted through it.

“ Ten-Four, Zero-Eight-Five-Two. Be advised that witness reports indicate 3, over.”

3? Omar’s stomach knotted on itself, his knuckles turning white. Hopefully, there’d be two or three units to help back them up if things went south but with most of their units either sick or occupied with keeping martial law on the streets, they’d be lucky to get even one. Omar hesitated, looking at Mira nervously, before recollecting himself and replying back.

“10-4. Inform us if units are en-route,” The radio clicked silent and Omar signed as Mira sped through Lambour’s roads and bricken buildings. “Fuck,” Omar whisepered to himself, shaking his head. As if an pandemic wasn’t bad enough, it looked like disaster attracted the worst of opportunists. It appeared that Lambour County wasn’t going to the sleepy northern town that he originally thought it was going to be. Puddles were split into mist under the wheels of their cruiser as they entered the perimeter of the outer eastern boroughs.

Omar looked at the panoply of neon signs that hung off the sides of shop fronts, laundromats and craft shops in Willard County. Willard Street was a local staple in Lambour, connected to the first by-way for weary travellers off the I-95. Now, those same glass windows that showed glazed baked tarts and heirloom crafted wooden puppets were covered by seams of wax papers which were jaggedly written with phrases in red ink such as “STAY OUT” and “ORDER ONLINE”. The gas station at the corner was cherry red and looked positively quaint in its antiquity, the cherry red pumps still visible in the heavy rain. As Mira stopped the car off the side of the gas station, Omar could see a few local citizens standing by. He squinted through the rain to get a good look but the only thing he could make out is the door of the gas station, slightly left ajar.

Before opening the door, Omar places a white parka folded up into a triangular bundle into Mira’s hands and puts on one himself. He pushes it open and immediately regrets it. The rain is heavy, blistering. The plastic parka he’s wearing isn’t enough to stop the drops from battering him senseless. He dips his hand into his hand and fumbles around for his sidearm. His fingers unclasp the strap and the tupperware like sensation of a standard U.S issued Glock greets his fingers. His index finger hooks around the trigger guard as he reaches into the car to take out the microphone.

“ This is the Sheriff’s office. All individuals inside the premises of this building must come out now with their hands behind their head. Failure to do so will lead to - “

The sound of thunder rips through the air. Then, Omar realizes it’s not thunder when a spiderweb of cracks unfurl across their window. He ducks down and shouts a word in Hindi that he thinks is a swear.

“ Should we go in?,” Omar questioned Mira, his eyes shifting uneasily towards her. His senior's expression creases in concentration before replying back. " Stay here and keep him talking. I'll go around the back."

A protest began to arise in Omar's throat about how they should wait for reinforcements but the longer they'd wait, the more likely the situation would escalate. Omar took ahold of the radio again.

" This is your final warning. Step out with your arms in the air."

" Fuck you, man!," A voice cried out from the gas station. " You drive away first or I swear to Christ, I'm going to shoot the guys I have here in the head!"

COLD PLAGUE

The rich aroma of the coffee woke Omar up. His movements were still laggard as his hands gingerly accepted what Mira offered him. His chin inclined slightly downwards out of silent appreciation before he pinched and pulled down the hem of his woolen mask with two fingers. Lifting the cup towards his face, Omar immediately slurped down the steaming black liquid. The caffeine scalded his tongue bitterly as he inhaled in to take a whiff of the earthy vapor. He exhaled out as the coffee worked its magic, the world around him becoming less of a blur and sharper, as if it was under a magnifying glass.

“ Small mercies,” Omar replied back, mouth muffled by the coffee cup. His eyes flickered towards Mira as he took another sip, watching as she drove out of the station onto the slick street. For the last 3 weeks, Omar had heard rumors from the other officers about Feng’s reputation since his induction at the Lambour County Sheriff’s Office. From what scant details he could put together, the common denominator between all the far-fetched tales he’d been told was that it had something to do with her conduct during her time at Williams County.

Plus, any officer who bought him coffee before patrol duty was alright in his books.

Rain cascaded down outside the car, shrouding the empty horizon in a thick soup of grey mist. The sugar maples and sycamores on the boulevard drooped down, their skeletal branches signifying the beginning of winter. At this hour, you would see some cars rolling down the street, maybe, a couple of people pulling out their umbrellas on the sidewalk. All Omar could see was mostly empty streets, windows wrapped with wax paper and closed doors. The scene reminded him more of a gh It made him shiver. On most days, Omar would be relieved but last night’s news report still troubled his mind.

It has first began as a series of coincidences, most chalking it up to the winter flu season. In less than 12 hours, Lambour Lutheran Hospital emergency departments were swamped with crowds of people all experiencing the same symptoms. They’d called it a flu at first but no flu caused this many people to become sick at the same time. When the first deaths were reported and Mayor Kilburn issued a state of emergency, Omar was more annoyed with the deluge of phone calls he’d received from Mom and Dad and Arat and Tomar and everyone else in his family. They’d urged him to move out of the city and Omar simply told them he couldn’t. The reason was simple. Law enforcement officers weren’t immune to whatever filled the halls of Lambour Lutheran and almost half of their officers were on paid sick leave. It’d left the other half to pick up the extra slack.

“ Other than what’s already been told to us by the mayor?,” Omar questioned, lying back in his seat. Contrary to Mira, he looked nonplussed about the events of the last 24 hours. He scratched his chin, deep in thought, before shrugging his shoulders. “ Every person I’ve spoken to has a different crackpot theory,” Omar lifted up his fingers and began counting them out one by one. “ Food poisoning. Some sick guy from overseas. Lab leak. God’s judgement. I think it’s almost easier to ask them what it isn’t than what it could be.”

Omar then looked at Mira, wondering if his words were reassuring enough, before clasping her shoulder briefly. “ Look, it’ll all blow over by the time spring comes around. Just between you and me, personally? I think I’m going to spend my salary on a vacation. Somewhere warm, like Hawaii -SLOW DOWN!”

Omar jabbed his finger towards the front of the patrol vehicle with urgency. They’d just turned the block and immediately, they met a swarm of dogs and cats that occupied the street. Lambour was no stranger to strays but Omar was confident today that the crowd of animals in front of them encompassed the entire population of missing pets in Lambour. The swarm paid no heed to them, scampering past their vehicles in one unified direction. Omar could feel the patrol vehicle vibrate as the column of animals marched past them.

“ Probably should call in animal control. ,” Omar breathed in shock. His eyes then squinted and pointed into the misty outlines of Lambour's inner city. “ Say, isn’t that where Lambour General and Lutheran are? Do you think that has something to do with them?”

COLD PLAGUE

Omar 'Mario' Barajavan

+

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 29 Sex Male Height 5'9 Weight 175 pounds Ethnicity Nepalese-Indian Rank Deputy ____________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY & PERSONALITY Backstory You know why my favourite brand of beer’s Kingfisher? Nice peaty notes. It’s a coincidence that it’s also how my mom and dad first met in a seedy bar in New Dehli. Sharing a glass of Kingfisher. They both came from overbearing service jobs from their home states of Kathmandu and Kashmir; Mom an overworked sous chef and Dad an overworked hydroelectric engineering consultant. I was born in a squalid little apartment complex, the second child of my family and the last to be born on the eastern hemisphere. You see, like most other enterprising migrants, my dad and mom had to be asleep to see the American Dream. India was growing fast but not fast enough for the both of them. They saw America as the land of Gates, McDonalds, Las Vegas, Wall Street, rock, milkshakes and opportunity. So, they sold our shitty little apartment and got on a 15 hour flight to JFK. Life proceeded as it normally would. Trysts under the bleachers. Snowball fights with the next-door neighbours. Got my name from the bullies and made them scream my name before the teachers pulled me off them. Throwing your crappy report cards down the garbage can. For all it was, I did well enough to get into Rutger’s before my house got torched alongside a quarter of our savings. Whether it was deliberate or an sign from God to do DIY renovations, my mother’s dream of seeing me become a financial consultant at Goldman and Sachs was over. My father had a little bit of a 9/11 rant but that faded away eventuallly over time. I considered doing my soul searching by going to the nearest enlistment office but the NJPD had other plans for me. Becoming one of the few Nepalese police officers in New Jersey earned me little praise or envy for that matter. No one noticed me which was fine by me and even more surprising for them when I began moving up the ranks quickly. I was getting my act back together. Got a girlfriend, Clarisse. Was paying my rent on time. I got in shape. I was living for myself finally. I spent my first two years off and on patrol duty, a year in emergency services that made me lose my lunch more than I can count and then, street crimes. Fucking street crimes. If you’d catch the amount of shit that officers get up to in street crimes, you’d realize that calling us all pigs was justified. Anyway, IA managed to stop my ass from getting splattered all over the pavement and sent me to desk duty in the Sheriff’s office for about a year. And then, they booted my ass out of state and demoted me. Thank god for police unions, am I right? The NJPU gave me a lease for a new apartment and a new position in Lambour County’s sheriff office before simply telling me to fuck off. I supposed I should be grateful that I wasn’t fired. Small mercies, am I right? I tried to convince Clarisse to move with me but I supposed it was too much for her. At the very least, she broke the news to me over a cup of coffee. I still keep in contact with Mom and Dad. I think my little brother’s shacked up with me at the moment for a conference in Lambour that he’s attending. Something about concrete? Eh, I couldn’t tell you. So, that’s my life story. And remember to pay the next five drinks on my tab, hear me? Personality One pair of leather boots. One coffee cup. Cooking the same breakfast everyday: two over-easy eggs, a hash of turkey bacon, fried mushrooms and a slice of sourdough toast. Mario, in simple terms, views life as unfair and in return, treats it in an minimalistic manner to avoid the pain of uncertantiy. He maintains a relaxed demeanor and prefers to resolve conflicts in the most efficient manner that requires the least amount of effort. Where there waas once optimism has been burnt out hollow by cynicism and filled by a dreary sense of realism. The odd speck of passion arises in him every once in a while but it is usually quashed by his own desire to have a quiet life. He often keeps the lower half of his face concealed with a bandana out of habit.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

News of the Heavenly Sword’s arrival rippled through the comms chatter like someone throwing a stone into a still pond. They had stood vigil at the dam for an hour and a half, Greta and Ansel chatting about which system they would go to once they had finished up their contracts with the company and Takka chain-smoking several cigars. They all fell into position like a well oiled machine, Greta and Ansel manning the controls for Merry-Go-Round’s SRM silos and MGs. Takka flipped a switch and the barrel briefly moved back into and out of the turret as the autoloader fired up. Flipping open the hatch, Aroxy scanned the horizon through his binoculars and a cloud of exhaust interspersed with black ant-like dots tstared back at him. He tweaked the focus and scoffed at what he saw. Civilian vehicles. Modified. It was a common practice in urban, guerilla warfare. The trucks would likely be carrying the heavy material whilst the smaller ones would be lucky to have man portable anti-vehicular weaponry. It would be a cakewalk under normal circumstances but the sheer volume of vehicles was a problem. The Heavenly Sword were going in for an all or nothing tactic. In the meantime, staying back and firing at them would be the most advisable course of action.

Aroxy was about to bark an order to begin firing before he saw Family Man sprint forward and lurch upwards, dim trails of burning fuel emanating from its trio of jump-jets. The gangly mech descended and crashed down into the vehicle column, sending clumps of dirt and asphalt everywhere. The flashes of explosion on the other side of the river bank only confirmed that the mechwarrior was engaging. Aroxy resisted the urge to throttle the mech pilots. Exposing themselves like this wantonly would only make them more vulnerable to enemy fire, not to mention, the fact that they were down-range of Merry-Go-Round’s cannons.

“ Order received. Calling out to all infantry units, fall back. To all those engaging in close-quarters, keep a minimum distance of fifty meters away from enemy material. ” Aroxy then spoke into private crew comms. “ Takka, you heard the drill. Recommending elevation 30 degrees. Adjust for 20 wind speed. Greta and Ansel, LRMs on the trucks.”

His crew heeded his commands, adjusting the aims of their respective weapons. Propellant charges were detonated, fuel salvos were ignited and a blossom of death erupted from the Von Luckner’s cannons. The first shell smashed diagonally into the truck, almost slicing it in half, and then, veered through into a quartet of scrap-modified SUV, sending them all flying. Takka reloaded again and fired once more. The LRMs came down like meteors, swallowing the column in swirls of fire and shockwaves of dirt. The mass of vehicles was so great that Takka only had to adjust minutely every second or so before firing once more. Aroxy could see through the Von-Luckner’s integrated thermo-opticsthe heat trails of flailing occupants exiting their flaming vehicle and staggering away in shock.

Meanwhile, there was a bigger problem. Namely, the motorcycles racing towards them. Training the AC on them would be like attempting to hit a fly with a baseball bat. This would require a more finessed approach. Aroxy signalled to Takka inside the tank to begin moving them forward.

“ Helma, gun the MG. Ansel, man the flamethrower if they get within a hundred meters of us. Takka, take over the LRMs. We got hostiles closing in at a klick.”

Green snakes of tracer rounds and orange geysers of flame followed soon after. The volley of lead and napalm collided with the motorcyclist. Several had their stomachs or chests excavated open or heads disappear in puffs of rusty red. A few that made it through the machine gun fire dove into the heat of the Von Luckner’s flamethrower and emerged on the other side, burnt to screaming crisps.

“ Keep them alive? Nah, fuck that. I haven’t had this much fun since the Free Systems since clamping down on those insurgents in New Valencia,” Takka barked over the comms much to Aroxy’s embarrassment. Clearly, the heat of the battle had gotten to his driver’s head.

“ It would be prudent to do so after the battle.” Aroxy’s voice came soon after. “ We can have our medics patch up the wounded and interrogate them for information.”

Username Origins

The name doesn't originate from Brock Lesnar, ironically. It's actually the name of a Snorlax that TeamFourStar caught during their Pokemon LeafGreen Nuzlocke playthrough.

Age of Marvels - A Marvel Comics Roleplay [CLOSED]

THE INDESTRUCTIBLE IRON MAN

_{arc 1: furnace
issue 1.2.2.2 - next degree}

virtual_artificial_iter7.8965_developmentlog.mp3

PLAY/PAUSE?

[00:34:57] A crowded office desk pans into frame, surrounded by mountains of stained ceramic mugs and scrunched up note paper. The mousy face of Tony Stark pans into view, a sweat beaded face with red rimmed eyes. His beard is roughly chopped.

[00:36:50] “ This is Day 4 of testing the General Adaptive Responsive Virtual Intelligence System Alpha Build. I’m scrapping the original language and building from the ground up. Turns out PymLan burns up more RAM than my servers are capable of handling. It’s going to be another month of headaches but, hey, I don’t want my own personal HAL-1000 to get a seizure, right. Training data needs another month to be optimized but we should begin construction of primary neural algorithms in a week or so. Testing today consisted of enabling heuristic baselines to social conversations through conversation. Topics included: Stacey Langford vomiting all over my bed, my bender in Vegas, my startling lack of father figures, musical tastes - remind me to input bias factors for punk next time - and…and…”

“ Fuck, maybe, Rhodey was right about me.”

“ Being more comfortable with talking to a machine of all things…”

---

The first time she steps into Tony Stark’s minivan makes her wonder whether she hedged her bets right. The floor is a hoarder’s dream, a heap of unorganized blueprint manuals and manic trash strewn all over the floor. Looking at it reminds her of an upended garbage bin. She almosts expect to see a raccoon scurrying her way out of the pile.

“ Can’t you work faster?,” she snipes at the most wanted man on the eastern seaboard. Stark is currently typing away frenetically, lines of code running down the monitor like a waterfall. His expression doesn’t waver as he replies back in a sarcastic monotone.

“ I would if you’d stop pointing a gun at my head.”

“ And stop giving you incentive?,” she purrs sarcastically, tapping the gun against the side of his temple. “ I heard the best artists work under pressure.”

“ Ah, nothing more like the threat of death to get the juices flowing.”

The next couple of minutes is a flurry of keyboard keys and brief sips of some off-brand caffeinated sports drink from a convenience store. Stark’s bloodshot eyes boredly stare at the computer, only flinching every once in a while in sheer annoyance. Those moments are rare like a koi fish swimming to the surface of a pond.

“ Why the suit?,” the question tumbles out of her mouth.

“ Hm?”

“ Why…all this.” She says with irritation. “ You’re Tony Stark.”

“ And?,” Stark replies in a tone that she only expects is the closest vocal expression to shrugging your shoulders.

“ You’ve got enough fucking money that every stock broker in Wall Street puckers up their ass whenever you go on one of your binges. You earn two to three Nobel prizes a year. You’re the heir to a multi-billion dollar company and you’re telling me the best way to deal with all your issues right now is to dress up in a powered suit of armor?”

Not even a blink. Nothing to communicate any anger. Stark still wore the same despondent look on his face as though he was an insomniac late-night shift worker.

“ Yup.”

“ And here I thought you were the smartest man alive.”

“ Oh, is that disappointment I hear?” The taps on the keyboard become louder. “ Feel free to walk to the back of the line because you’re not the only one.”

“ I thought you’d be….”

“ What? No, no, no, let me guess.” Stark jeered at her sarcastically. “ Like Reed Richards? Hank Pym? Abraham Erskine? Some quiet, eccentric visionary toiling away in their labs, producing technological miracles for the good of the world? A prim and proper little scientist staying in their lane whilst everyone causes chaos around them?Did the world change for the better when the Pym Particle was discovered? Did the world change for the better when Erskine made the Super Soldier Serum? Did the world turn upside down when Reed Richards began making another public tech demo in an impoverished third world country. I didn’t think so. I am not your fucking Gandhi. I am not your Einstein. I am a man with a drinking problem. I can’t solve the world’s problems.” Stark stopped talking and then, shook his head sadly. “ That’s what caused all this stupid shit in the first place anyway.”

“ I thought you’d be different.”

“ Well, - “ His voice caught on a cough before continuing “ - you thought wrong.” The monitor suddenly flickered and a black window emerged. She thought it looked like a sheet of graph paper, stretched out across the back of the porcupine. The spines oscillated, flickering up and down randomly. Whatever Stark had been doing to crack the device open was successful as he leaned over, a mad glint in his eyes. “ And bingo. Come on, come on, don’t fail on me now, buddy…..”
The graph paper contorts, shrinking into a line as thin as yarn. The yarn begins snapping and threading back together in a simplistic imitation of the human mouth. The cheesy 90s british accented tone from the speakers forces to put two and two together to realize it was him.

“ Hello, sir. I’ve had a terribly long nap and -,” There was a brief skip in the A.I’s speech. A half-second or so. To anyone else, it would have seemed like a minor glitch but to her, it was the electronic equivalent of human shock.

“ Sir, why are we currently 154 miles away from our home address?”

“ Hello, JARVIS.” Stark sheepishly scratched his head. “ I’ve got some explaining to do.”

Age of Marvels - A Marvel Comics Roleplay [CLOSED]

Am currently working on it. Had to scrap the post I had planned because I was unsatisfied with it.

Age of Marvels - A Marvel Comics Roleplay [CLOSED]

THE INDESTRUCTIBLE IRON MAN

_{arc 1: furnace
issue 1.2.2.1 - first degree and a half}

---

“ Oh?,” Obidiah said, a dangerous playful lilt to his voice. “ And pray tell, what do I earn from this wager?”

“ What do you earn?” Justin scoffed, looking at Obidiah like his head had grown three times in size. “ What do you earn? You earn our shares, you salvage Stark’s Industries reputation in the market, your investors will gain confidence to burn their expenses and you won’t cause a riot when you have to layoff your workforce by the time next quarter. Hell, I’m throwing you a lifeboat on a platter with a cherry on top, Stane.”

Justin’s arm swung from the arm rest like a pendulum. Behind his golden shades laid eyes that glimmered inside with a dozen different barbs, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. He’d practiced well in advance for what he thought the old man would say and consulted with his legal team on the ways the old man could slither out of this.

Carrots ready to lure and sticks to bat away tongues.

However, Justin couldn’t have predicted what Obidiah said next.

“ I appreciate it, Justin, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no.”

It was matter of fact, conservational. His offer was treated more like some gossip on a weekend brunch rather than the mother of all financial gift horses given to a failing company. There was no treble in Stane’s voice. His eyes didn’t blink. No bead of sweat on that shiny bald head of his. As far as Justin could tell, Obidiah Stane was completely sane.

Then, why the hell had he slapped away his offer?

“ I thought’d you learn by now that you can’t afford pride in this business, Stane,” Justin ground out, stifling his rage. Obidiah swirled around, head tilted down at Justin’s relaxed poise like a vulture.

“ Business?” Obidiah shook his head slowly. “ Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. No. You see, that’s the difference between you and me, Justin. This game can afford pride. What it can’t afford are small minds such as yours.”

Justin was now feeling smaller and smaller under Obidiah’s hawkish look. He chuckled with false bravado, taking another draught of his smouldering cigar.

“ Whatever, Stane.” Justin flicked the cigar away on the floor and stood up, brushing his coat. “ As soon as you tank the NASDAQ, you’ll be wishing you took my offer. See you when you’re ready to sign the papers.”

He turned around, leaving one last leering sneer towards Stane, before walking away.

“ By the way, Justin…” Obidiah’s I heard about your new project of yours that you’ve been dangling in front of Washington. You’re planning to do a field test with state police to target a certain little…friend of mine.”

Hammer’s hand froze just inches away from the doorknob.

“ How the hell did you - “

“ Call it insider trading. Say, how much have you burnt in RnD trying to perfect that exoskeleton tech? What’s your backup plan if it fails the demo, Justin?”

“ I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Justin replied stiffly.

“ Anyway, rest assured, if all goes well, Justin, I’ll be there to sign those papers you talked about at 24th Worchester Street, Odega.” Obidiah paused and snorted in faux embarassment. “ Oh, I’m sorry. I must have confused your address with your son’s address. Tell me, how is he doing these days?”

The door closed with a bang. Obidiah smirked, looking at the crumpled leather seat which Justin had just occupied. Justin’s cologne still hung around in the air like a thick musk. He’d have to ask Potts to get the cleaners in here. His eyes wandered over towards Justin’s dropped cigar and picked it up between the crook of his middle and index finger. He twirled it around from the burnt ashen end to the gnawed end where Justin’s molars rended it down to mulch.

A twist of his fingers crumbled it to dust.

Checkmate.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

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.”