CaptainBritton

Star Wars: A New Batch - A Clone Squad RP [CLOSED]

The klaxon rattled in his helmet, leaving a hollow whine in its retreat. He drew in a deep breath, bolting as the first one off the starting plate. He was aggressive in his advance, thrusting a shoulder into the first block of cover abruptly, shouldering up his DC-15A. Bringing the sight to his visor, he put out burst after burst of fire, before retreating back into cover, bursts of red answering his assault.

"You wanted bait, you got it!" He shouted over the squad net, making a cheeky hand signal towards the heavy gun team.

He shrunk back into cover as he drew a metric ton of fire, letting his DC fall to hang by its sling, fiddling with the sling of his shoulder launcher.

"Come on, guys! Tempo, tempo, tempo!"

Spearhead in the Gap; A WWIII war game (1985)

You better frickin' bet I'm in.

NATO forces, in particular. I'll make Abrams proud, hell or high water.

roleplayerguild.com/rolls/19765

Star Wars: A New Batch - A Clone Squad RP [CLOSED]

Up, one.

Up, two.

The metal on the edge of the rack groaned with contempt for its abuser. CT-7627 railed pull-up after pull-up before lights out formally ended. Grunts from the Trooper and the protests of his glorified pod they knew as 'racks' echoed down the platoon bay, as thoughts raced through his mind.

Command had upped the ante. They were being put to the flame more and more often in the past few weeks. Those 'Jedi' paid their visits more frequently, solemn robed figures which flanked the officers during formation. If things were popping off, they were going off now. It wasn't his business, though. Even if it was, they received the best training a soldier could get. They were more than ready after almost ten years of stagnation.

BEEP - BEEP - BEEP

Up, forty-five.

Reveille. Like clockwork some forty other racks popped open with a collective whirr. The lights in the platoon bay flickered and brightened to illuminate the blindingly white surfaces of their home of the past ten years.

---

Formation went as mind-numbingly boring as ever. The inspections and their constant nitpicks may have bothered some, but to 7627 and the other Troopers of the 105th, it was a fact of life. It was all but pure bliss when released to the training bays, even with all else said. Though basic drills put nothing near a smile on 7627's face. Yet, disagreeable as it was, there was nothing but silent reverence as Instructor Harkin walked the deck before them.

"Aye, sir." Were the first and last words out of his mouth before he took his place at the starting line. His DC was rendered hot with a swift motion, the feed of a charge pack into the weapon and the flick of a fire selector. His launcher too came unslung, albeit briefly as a dummy missile was fed in, the weapon returning to its rightful place.

"Same as always, guys. Just make sure to stay clear of my backblast." He cracked a light confrontational smirk as he looked down the line at his comrades. 7627 was as cocky and aggressive as ever.

Star Wars: A New Batch - A Clone Squad RP [CLOSED]

Trooper CT-7627

Clone Number: CT-7627

Army Rank/Role: Heavy Trooper / Assaultman

Nickname: None.

Personality/Bio: Nearly indistinguishable from his comrades on the physical front, 7627 takes pride in the unity and collectivism of the Grand Army's clone legions, acting as an unquestioning cog in the massive war machine designed right under the galaxy's nose. His reverence for Mandalorian custom and the brotherhood of the Resol'nare is notable, and his respect and loyalty to the Cuy'val Dar, particularly their batch's instructor by the name of Harkin Jendri, is only outmatched by his undying loyalty to the Republic.

7627's personality is marked by his dedication to conventional tact and indeed his aggression in combat. His actions are generally carefully considered, but he is quick to anger and impatient to the point of frustration, his actions becoming more impulsive and reckless as his temper is elevated. In training, his short fuse was largely controlled by rigid instruction, but whether that lasts into real combat is to be seen.

He does not seem to sport the same leadership potential and free-thinking attitude as his progenitor, however his specialty seems to lie in his accuracy with a shoulder-mounted launcher, marked as well by his proficiency as an armorer/weapons expert.

Weaponry:
- DC-15A Blaster Rifle
- RPS-6 Shoulder-fired Launcher
- 2x Thermal Detonators
- Clone Individual First Aid Kit (Emergency Bacta Auto-Injector, 4x Low-Concentration Bacta Patches, Single-Use Synthflesh Kit, Wound Dressings and Salves, Disinfecting Wipes)

Mobile Suit Gundam: Anthem - CLOSED, due to drop outs

Once again just checking up here. Not in any rush, just making sure.

Mobile Suit Gundam: Anthem - CLOSED, due to drop outs

Putnam blasted forward as his saw a missile connect, searching hard for a confirmed kill as his infrared sensors overloaded. A mono-eye beaming through the carnage put his hopes to rest as it closed, pulling forth a beam saber. Backing off with a jet of blinding blue, he jerked the stick left, his other hand mashing the ejector on the beam saber stored in the Jesta's left forearm.

"I'm in close!" He called over net.

Grasping at the saber with the suit's right hand, he swerved his shield around via the manipulator on his pack, glancing off the Gelgoog's initial blow at the cost of the lower tip of his shield, which was reduced to cherry red slag. It did, however, give him an opening, with Putnam bringing down his own ignited saber diagonally towards the Gelgoog's unguarded left pauldron.

Mobile Suit Gundam: Anthem - CLOSED, due to drop outs

Any word on this moving along? I'm not in any particular rush, just curious.

~ Halo: Suffocation ~ - Interest Check

Consider me interested.

Mobile Suit Gundam: Anthem - CLOSED, due to drop outs

As the situation ignited both figuratively and literally, the wanton destruction which erupted left Putnam in shock. His jaw dropped and eyes widened, his hands tensing on the controls, idly easing out of his heading as to not cause him to push back into his seat violently. Blinking rapidly, he traced the seam lines of his 360 monitor with his bright blues. A bright blinding light of pink-red sailed off to his right, rattling the cockpit with its force, marking out his target.

"Titch to all, acquired one times bogey, breaking off to run interference." He called his target as if he'd done it a thousand times before, but his voice twinged as he pulled the yoke, breaking off from the formation.

His other hand drifted to the digital display screens set front and to the left and right of the stick. Glancing down, and with two button presses, the display lit up with the code 'IR-MSL - 4/4'. Gripping at the second stick now, Putnam jinked the frame of his Jesta around to throw off incoming fire, with another beam shot going wide, this time off his left. The shoulder shield mounted on the suit's left shoulder broke loose on one end with some movement of the leftmost stick, and exposed the missile pods buried within.

Aligning the shield, a reticle of green formed on the front of the 360 monitor, and an idle beeping tone filled Putnam's ears, the reticle drifting, settling, shrinking. The tone screamed now, a solid yell inside the cockpit.

"I've got a tone! Fox two!" Titch cried, depressing the trigger on the stick, releasing two missiles.

Mobile Suit Gundam: Anthem - CLOSED, due to drop outs

Putnam balanced himself along the railing overlooking the mobile suit bay, whistling quietly behind the polarized glass of his normal suit's helmet. His hands white-knuckled the railing, he glanced over the gathered suits, among them his Jesta. Sure, it'd been nearly three years since his last combat sortie, but he'd kept in practice, live fires and all with this new monster of an escort suit. Yet, was this anxiety he was feeling? His expression hardened as he flung himself over, his momentum carrying him towards his suit. Digging in his hard-sole boots on the exterior, he grabbed at the hand-holds on the extended canopy door, staring in towards the MS electronics tech (MET) and Putnam's chosen suit chief, Petty Officer Arstrand, strapped down in the seat, tablet jacked into the instruments console.

"We all good here, Mads?"
"Yeah, you shouldn't have a problem with that APU switch sticking now. All yours, Titch." The MET spoke up with a thick Dutch accent, pushing off the seat and passing by Putnam with a graceful slide.
"Good shit. That's why you're my fuckin' SC, eh?" He grinned to the tech as he floated off.
"You know it."

Slipping into the cockpit, Putnam made for the seat. One strap down, another strap down, locked in the three-point clip centered on his sternum. His fingers went to the respective switch consoles on either side of his seat's cushion, a complex startup procedure which ended with the 360-degree monitors flaring to life. Lastly, with a fidget of a dial, Black Thorn's call came in.

"Yeah, this is Titch. Final checks showing everything green, taking third in catapult pattern, boss."

And as he called, his suit's locks disengaged. A clear from the air boss and his cold-gas vernier thrusters carried him to a standstill. He listened in to the comms. Suit one away. Two is on the catapult, suit two is away. His turn. Pressing the appropriate stick forward, his suit stepped up to the catapult shuttle. Two mechanical arms on each side offered the weapons of choice, the Jesta's high-powered beam rifle, matched with an anti-beam treated shield for the opposing arm. The two main thrusters on the Jesta's back flared with blue flame, at full power.

"Titch, launching."

All at once, Putnam was pressed into the back of his seat with great force. His hands stayed glued to the seat-mounted handholds as his suit was flung clear by the catapult. One hundred meters out, two hundred meters out, now three hundred, and his hands drifted down to the controls. He performed a wide angle clearing turn, coming up on the lead suit's left, and eventually then on the left side of their objective, the shuttle.

Thoughts raced in his head as his eyes traced the instruments panel, looking for any sort of Minovsky particle disruption of his sensors. Nothing.

"This is Titch, in holding pattern off the port side of objective vessel. Nothing sighted, keeping eyes peeled."