pugbutter

モバイルフレーム MOBILE FRAME - To the Stars!

@Foster And of course half of them are gay. That'd be just Troy's luck. 😞

Vendetta Inc.

Red Eleven standing by.

E:\cyberpunk\the_deadliest_question.exe

I was told I need to change my dissertation topic AGAIN

@DarknessDawning

I would probably give up after the first time. Jesus Christ.

Thanks for the warning. Take all the time you need.

Cyaиide Suиs

@Xandrya Did I accidentally reuse a name? Uh oh.

I was trying to use one which was culturally/ethnically ambiguous.

モバイルフレーム MOBILE FRAME - To the Stars!

@Krayzikk I didn't choose the ａｅｓｔｈｅｔｉｃ life. The ａｅｓｔｈｅｔｉｃ life chose me.

モバイルフレーム MOBILE FRAME - To the Stars!

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Technical Data

Model Number: MB-P08-A/Sc ("Missile Boat" model derived from Prototype #8; custom designations in the areas of auxiliary and support roles)
Code Name: "Odin"
Manufacturer: LaCroix Industries
Dimensions: 6.0 meters outstretched
Weight: 22.14 metric tons dry

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Armaments

Fixed Armaments:

• (x2) LRM-6 missile pods; 21 missiles per pod, one pod per shoulder.
• (x2) (x1,350rnds ea.) 14.5mm Surtur blowback-powered machine guns, located on either side of the nose/cockpit region. With alternating fire between the two barrels, together these guns shoot at a modest 760 rounds per minute.

Hand Armaments:

• Right arm
  • 22mm grenade launcher
  • 16mm grenade launcher
• Left arm
  • 22mm grenade launcher
  • 16mm grenade launcher

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Miscellaneous

Technical & Historical Notes: It comes as no surprise that the Odin's commission was so short-lived. Besides the obvious disadvantages of bipedal Frames with little or no slope-climbing capabilities, this particular model suffers from many more: quite simply, the designers didn't know what they wanted it to be. It sports an enormous number of long-range missiles, but its armor is impractically heavy for rear duty, instead implying more personal and close-range deployment against other mechs. The number of heat sinks it sports is similarly ludicrous; although these helps with long-range bombardment, they drastically affect the machine's fuel efficiency, and of course serve to slow it down by adding more mass to the design. It already demands an enormously powerful engine, but then even more power allows it to move extremely quickly for its size, burning a simply exorbitant amount of fuel. On top of all this the thing (in its original specs) sports not two, not four, but six antipersonnel machine guns, three on either side of the cockpit, for blowing away literal legions of ground troops. The overall result is that in the designers' attempt to create a jack-of-all-trades machine, they created a master of nothing; in their desire to create an end-all-be-all super-mech, they created an inefficient, pricey vehicle with an identity crisis.

In the secondary market these outdated, clunky mechs are pieces of junk, and their price tag reflects this fact.

That of course is before Troy got his hands on one, at which point it gradually was modified to become a dedicated long-range artillery unit. His specialty is demolitions: things which go "boom" at medium and long ranges, often behind a hilltop or outside of a city where a conflict has broken out. Slab by slab he has lightened the enormous armor loadout, replacing heavy alloys with lighter, thinner ferro-fibers. He has also cut his antipersonnel weaponry by two thirds, sporting only two automatic guns. This has allowed him then to equip a smaller engine, which spends less fuel, which allows him in turn to stay in the field longer. Only the heat sinks have received minimal streamlining, as Troy's payload is intended as a single, enormous blitzkrieg strike; cracking the enemy's shell before the girls have moved in to initiate full contact with the enemy.
Color Scheme: Standard is unpainted gun-metal grey with black-tinted windows. Troy's is olive drab with a sneering fanged mouth painted at the "beak."
Anything Else: He calls it the Iron Chicken.

モバイルフレーム MOBILE FRAME - To the Stars!

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（ バンディット・トロイ Ｂａｎｄｉｔｔｏ Ｔｏｒｏｉ ）

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Troy Bandit Ｎａｍｅ：
His cockpit callsign is "Rooster." Ａｌｉａｓｅｓ：
24 Ａｇｅ：
July 31 Ｂｉｒｔｈｄａｙ：
Male Ｇｅｎｄｅｒ：

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Ｈｅｉｇｈｔ： 178cm
Ｗｅｉｇｈｔ： 84kg
Ｂｕｉｌｄ： Lean and toned
Ｅｙｅｓ： Br
Ｈａｉｒ： Br
Ｓｋｉｎ Ｔｏｎｅ： White with a slight tan
Ｔａｔｔｏｏｓ／Ｓｃａｒｓ／Ｐｉｅｒｃｉｎｇｓ： Tribal tattoos on forearms; piercings in both ear lobes.
Ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌ Ｓｔｙｌｅ： Brown leather bomber jackets with shearling collars. Distressed, sometimes acid-washed jeans. Cowboy boots or white sneakers. Obnoxiously large sunglasses. Baseball caps turned the wrong way.

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Heterosexual Ｓｅｘｕａｌｉｔｙ：
Single Ｒｅｌａｔｉｏｎｓｈｉｐ Ｓｔａｔｕｓ：
Hotheaded, Loyal, Vain, Dutiful Ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌｉｔｙ：
Unable to decide whether he wants his hair tucked behind his ears; lacing his shoes only halfway up; drinking on duty; swearing like a sailor. Singing in the shower and talking to his mech while he works on it. Ｈａｂｉｔｓ：
Lifting, cars, machinery in general Ｈｏｂｂｉｅｓ：
Selling out Ｆｅａｒｓ：

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Ｇｅｎｅｒａｌ Ｓｋｉｌｌｓ： Proficiency with small arms (pistols) and blade weapons; mechanical know-how; athletics, especially sprinting and pole-vaulting; an excellent pilot, but one who is hindered by obsolete technology. Demolitions expert, with a special talent in mech-on-mech operations.

Ｉｎｖｅｎｔｏｒｙ／Ｐｏｓｓｅｓｓｉｏｎｓ：

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He's been with the Ghosts for 7 years and going on missions for 2. (Hey; training ain't free.) Ｙｅａｒｓ ｏｆ Ｃｏｍｂａｔ Ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅ：
Ｂａｃｋｇｒｏｕｎｄ：
Troy is a martian, whose love for the mechanical and the technological was instilled in him at a very young age, as the garage was filled with old, expensive landcars which the males of the family loved to work on. Unfortunately, in his attempts to keep Troy motivated to do well in school, the boy's father found only resistance, rebellion, and the wrath of raging teenage hormones. The boy dropped out of school at 16 and lied about his age in an attempt join the space fleet as an engineer; after being rejected, he tried mercenary work with the Chimera Corps, the elites of the Venetian ring-sector, but they weren't interested in a lad who couldn't even fight yet. (Psh. He didn't really want to join anyway, he'd tell you; they'd have made him cut his hair.) He was getting desperate then; too unskilled to be a soldier but too proud to return to his disappointed father, finally, as he was spending the last of his credits on ginger beer and noodles, a derelict in the rainy streets of Ganymede, the Ghosts took him in, probably out of pity, as a repairman.

He's been training ever since. He excels at hand-to-hand and at small arms marksmanship. However, his synch ratings are very poor in standard Frames, due to his rash and foolhardy disposition; so for his first real mission (having become a competent mechanic on the mothership in that time), he was trained with a more old-fashioned, outdated model, which they had found for cheap, equipped in its large and clunky cockpit with a multitude of manual buttons, levers, and joysticks. Troy is in love with his steel woman; he's spent much of his adult life cleaning it up and outfitting it to his precise specs, and proving that he can be just as useful on the battlefield as the poseurs taking baths in their liquid oxygen tanks with their fancy neural links and synch ratios.

Of course, the number of missions he can go on is limited by his rig's terrestrial design, but that won't stop him. He needs time between missions to perform maintenance on the company's machines anyway.

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[+]

E:\cyberpunk\the_deadliest_question.exe

@DarknessDawning just in case you didn't notice there's a reply, here's a ping.

Cyaиide Suиs

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Concerning:

@Hostile@Xandrya

There were four of them in all, all wielding crummy East Bloc weapons with rust on the receivers and decay splintered across the wooden stocks. But the rooftop was within the guns' accurate range; they weren't worried.

"When the shooting starts, what do we do about Amelia, boss?" asked one.

The sunlight, diffused through the cloud-blanket and between the leaves of their foliage cover, glowed grey against the soldier's face, well-weathered and three days unshaven. He chewed a toothpick, pushing it with his tongue from cheek to cheek. "Depends if she shoots back, I guess," he said, wondering what Marcel would want if he were here. He supposed he was a bit afraid of that, stalling for time lest he misspoke. "I like to think she'd take our side. Don't you?"

They agreed to watch the hangar a while. They watched for patrols on the ground and on the roof, and they watched the forest edge where an ambush could be staged—by either side. But was that Russian fuck smart enough to place troops discreetly out of sight? Or were they all hiding in the chicken-coup they called a base? Asking themselves that question, they felt safe enough to split up. Mikhail sent two men to flank the hangar through the woods, and end up on the other side. Then the sentries had no cover to hide behind up there. "Don't shoot until we do," he'd said. "Once the roof is clear, move in."

That's business, huh? he thought to himself. Gotta spend a few bullets to earn them back. Maybe the Russians would see things rationally, and know better than to be indebted to a rabid mongrel like Marcel. But if they chose to scam him, to scheme and conspire behind the bandit's back, surely they knew his retribution would come back to them. So it had to come quickly, so quickly they had no time to prepare for the assault.

Mikhail looked up. It would be dark soon. He set Amelia's time limit; the fun would start if he didn't see her soon, goods in hand.

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Meanwhile...

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Concerning:

@TemplarKnight07@Fyre Unholy@DepressedSoviet

"Georg! Rindsrouladen, zwei!" He was around the corner again, holding his fist out with two fat fingers straightened.

Suddenly Max was a second-rate Saint Nick; greasy, unkempt, a bit ugly, sure, but jolly in the cheeks and generous in the belly. The color of money flashed in his eyes, which like an addict's needle or the sound of liquid slapping a wino's cup, cured every ache in his load-bearing limbs and every worry in his shaggy head.

"Anyway, Owl, you don't like the dirty jobs, right? I'll think of something you can do. Sure. It just won't be the big job I need right now. Whoever goes out there will smell blood and gunpowder. That's not subtle work. I know you like the subtle stuff."

All the beers were poured and the food was on its way, so Max relaxed a little, leaning his saggy bosom against the sharp counter. He watched the newcomer especially, and was grateful that his heart rate seemed to calm, his limbs stopped shaking, the pink and scarlet disappeared from his face; so he wasn't on drugs or alcohol, and looked to be thinking clearly again. Max didn't want to worry about him, but every now and then a newcomer thought the beer-garden was one of the saloons in those old Western movies, built there just so a hero could saunter through and smash all the tables and shoot a black hat dead. He was close to the cordon; good for business most times, but that meant he caught all the newbies, good and bad. Whereas the barkeepers up north were serving stalkers who already knew the rules, already understood how to get in and out of town with their heads intact.

Cyaиide Suиs

@TheMadAsshatter No idea what you plan on doing (mainly whether you're the snoozer in the farmhouse or not), so I'm gonna skip your scene in this coming post. You have total freedom.