QJT

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

The outline discomforted Hamazasp. A stationary Locust was scrap metal in waiting, especially when it possessed no far reaching equipment. His mount was equipped with sparingly little armor plating and only absorbed so much while motionless. Of the pilots present, his death was most probable. The crew's betting odds likely reflected that, though he wouldn't bother to check. Gambling was for those with assets to lose. Regardless, he had twenty minutes to make peace with the circumstances. He bore the same countenance as he climbed aboard, bade farewell to his spry mechanic, strapped in, and descended.

With landfall approaching, he identified two square buttons, respectively red and blue, each embedded in a sea of verdant light. Figuring those to launch the ignition, he pressed the former. He couldn't hear the engines turning over and so repressed it. His newfound layer of sweat proved the cockpit considerably warmer than his initial inspection. He punched the other button, and the water that accumulated on his person began to chill. Ah; those controlled the temperature. God bless the factory models. Already a mess, he murmured a brief prayer of gratitude that new units maintained functional air conditioning. He held onto the latter until the inner atmosphere was near freezing. He relished the cold; it kept him aware and awake. He'd squeeze every last joule before stray flak or errant debris would render the system inoperable. Doubtless the technicians would have larger priorities.

He found the actual startup and flipped it on. The familiar whir satisfied him. He inhaled and exhaled, perusing the book titles situated in the corner. They seemed properly fastened to withstand the upcoming shudders. A flurry of paper would be quite distracting. He retrieved his harmonica and played a string of notes. The reeds soothed him, calming himself on battle's eve. Thankfully, his microphone was muted; the preemptive melodies were his alone to enjoy.

The Centurion's rear soon filled his view, as per instructions. Stowing his instrument, the Taurian glanced around for maximum speed settings, hoping to cruise at a steady pace after his superior. Upon reflection, he gave up the search. Sloth was not a trait he desired, and he didn't want to rediscover and adjust that control during combat. These musings culminated into the Ayrshire thumping up to the commander's backside, pausing for a couple seconds for his leader to stomp ahead, and repeating. The first salvos flew once he'd completed a few cycles.

The seemingly contradictory orders of "follow from a distance" and now "spread out" meant that Hamazasp's cover vanished almost instantly. It was perhaps a perfect excuse to break formation and charge the adversary point blank. Nonetheless, he understood the importance of team cohesion. He tried to imitate his boss's jagged maneuvers, a difficult task with different velocities and skill levels. His joystick's trigger was never pulled, as his targets in either direction or range were all friendly. He'd be Ulrik's obedient lapdog as duty necessitated.

He was still miffed, of course, that his Firestarter compatriot blatantly discarded that post and rushed the enemy. Sulser detected a trace of jealousy but mostly repugnance within his own disapproval. He ultimately concluded that the flamer wasn't reliable. Conversely, as predicted, Jaromir's supportive fire confirmed trustworthiness. Would that he himself could mimic the assistance.

His unblemished hull was probably a testament to its current lack of threat. The retired farmer, growing bored on the battlefield, activated his communications. "Sir Commander, my vehicle is ineffective from behind you. Permission to engage independently in close quarters?" It had the energy of a rookie eagerly exclaiming "Put me in, Coach!", but the loquaciousness mitigated the effect somewhat.

Noble Arms - The ASEAN War [Moved to New Thread]

Collaboration between Kaitlyn, Iker, Myron and Hannie

Part 2/2

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:38 UTC+8

It felt... final, decisive, the make or break moment. In a couple minutes, they'll either have secured 60+ POW's or lost two men and given their position away.

Since Hannie was present, Kaitlyn indulged her inner mother and motioned her over, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. It was unprofessional, but she wouldn't see Captain Kennedy or her crew after today.

"Operation is active," Kennedy instructed her subordinates. "Inform the Yap to prime naval guns and torpedoes. Launch the lifeboat."

The bridge emanated quiet energy as ensigns paid keen attention to respective stations. The commander exhaled to relax herself, then inhaled to puff herself up. The only noise was the clacking of various keyboards and a seaman calmly relaying orders over the comms, headphones keeping allied ships' conversations from distracting the crew.

Blockade Runners, Lifeboat of the BRP Conrado Yap - 10/11/2022, 19:39 UTC+8

Iker looked out the window at the handful of sailors who lowered him. His salute was a mere thumbs up, a casual acknowledgment of calm assurance for both himself and the whole operation. He activated the communication systems in anticipation of receiving another aboard. He glanced around the controls; he'd operated more complicated machinery prior. The engines ignited, and Iker briefly prayed for the endeavor.

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:39 UTC+8

"Lifeboats away. Torpedo systems and auto cannons loaded and awaiting your command," the seaman commented, relaying the Yap's updates.

"I'm ready to... teleport, now," Murray informed Kaitlyn. "Take care of Hannie for me."

Kaitlyn smiled. "Of course. Fair warning, teleporting can be disorienting. I almost threw up the first time."

Myron extended his shield to Murray. "Touch this; conversion to data takes a second or less."

Gordon bestowed his bullhorn upon Murray. "In case your voice doesn't carry," he chuckled.

Murray grasped the bullhorn with one hand, then, once Gordon released, touched Myron's shield with the other. In mere moments, he vanished.

Blockade Runners, Lifeboat of the BRP Conrado Yap - 10/11/2022, 19:40 UTC+8

Slightly disoriented when he materialized inside the orange boat, Murray first sensed the motor's vibration and the waves' whispers upon the enclosure. Iker uncomfortably reclined behind him, surprising him as he spoke. "So that's how it appears. Curious."

Murray turned around and, lacking suitable alternative greetings, saluted his compatriot in this endeavor. "Seaman Michael Murray, at your service."

Iker nodded briefly. "Iker Orozco, at yours."

"Yes, well, I stand ready."

The lifeboat surpassed the corvette from which it embarked, and reached range of the Chinese patrol in a matter of seconds as opposed to minutes. Amidst the loud ambient noise, a faint shout arose a kilometer away: "Zuǒbiān de wèizhī chuán!"

Iker halted the engines. "Cause for alarm?"

"They've spotted us but cannot identify us," Murray commented.

Iker peeked through the lifeboat's window. He was immediately greeted by the piercing glare of a spotlight. "Zhèngmíng nǐ de shēnfèn!" traversed the waters over the enemy vessel's speakers, apparently at the wayward vessel.

Iker blinked and dismounted. "Well, we're at reasonable length, anyways. Please take control." Iker vacated the navigator's station as Murray stumbled into the pilot's seat. "Don't be alarmed; I'll attempt to summon a luminous battleaxe."

"Of course," Murray exhaled, "Why wouldn't you?" He saw stranger abnormalities this evening.

The lifeboat flooded with light, and Campeón Champiñón rested trustfully in Iker's possession. After a momentary pause, Iker swung it horizontally towards the ship's hull. The clang with which the axe pierced mimicked a bullet shot, and Murray jolted in his chair.

"Àn zhù nǐ de huǒ!" blasted the speakers. Eerie calmness encompassed both ships. The Yap, a third party, approached from behind and beside.

Iker sat in the cabin and placed his fingers on his temples, furrowing his brow and trying to concentrate above the waves, as if finding the perfect chess move in a losing match. Thump came a distant sound. "That's not sufficiently large... Ah," Iker mused, "They must have two. Michael, please, does the ship's rear host a lifeboat?"

Murray peered through the spotlight. "Affirmative, I believe."

"Eureka." Thump again. "Very well; that's a couple away vessels rendered inoperative," Iker stated. "Pardon me in advance; I'm known to produce ghastly noises with heavier undertakings." Breathing heavily, Iker gripped his kneecaps and gritted his teeth. Murray felt unease, as if encountering a deranged drug addict along narrow corridors. He focused towards his own preparations, inspecting and activating his bullhorn. The unmistakable shriek of unwilling metal surfaced, muted by a thin film of water.

Iker relaxed. "I've created a gash beneath the surface, roughly twenty meters long," he announced. "I suspect our adversary's patrol has one hour left afloat."

Murray rolled his shoulders. "Well, fortis Fortuna adiavat." He exited then mounted the vehicle, speaking at the highest volume his limited voice and technology allowed. "Chuán zhèngzài xià chén, shàng chuán zǒu ba!" His Australian accent deformed his admittedly competent Chinese. "Wǒmen shì nǐ wéiyī de- Whoa!"

A bullet grazed the lifeboat's upper hull. Murray didn't need to dodge but nonetheless momentarily lost his balance. He regained it and attempted to conclude and repeat. "...de jiùyuán! Chuán zhèngzài-"

Another cartridge was emptied, penetrating the ocean before the vessel. Iker manned his radio. "We are being fired upon, but inaccurately from such a distance. What are your orders?"

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:42 UTC+8

Dread gripped Kaitlyn as she appraised the situation. She hadn't accounted for the possibility of such hostility. The closer they got, the more likely they were to get shot. The PLA navy wasn't very receptive to its 'rescue.' Should Murray and Iker maintain course, and hope the Chinese cease fire when they realize what's happening? Would they rather go down with the ship than receive mercy? Would they retaliate harder if ASEAN retaliates?

She breathed out, feeling her heart beat faster. She entertained a fleeting thought. That's not an option yet. "By now, they're probably suspicious. They'll be raising an alarm soon, won't they?" She addressed nobody in particular, not that she expected an answer.

The Philippine escort would appear any moment now. While the Supply could whip up some noise, it'd be better to take preventative actions other than that. Not quite an attack... Per se... More like suppression. "Myron, can you drop the gas yet?"

"Assuming their comms can receive a hail, yes," was Myron's answer. "If they have Internet, I can also force sleeping agent through their firewalls."

She blinked, and turned to face the captain properly. This fiasco had occurred because Kaitlyn hadn't understood how the enemy vessel would react. The crew or the captain. "Captain... What would it take for a ship to lay down arms?" Evidently dooming the ship wasn't enough. Kaitlyn wasn't entirely certain that dropping bombs would improve the situation more. She needed the perspective of a commander.

Huddled up to Kaitlyn, staring fearfully out into the ocean, the forgettable 14-year-old piped up. "People keep saying we shouldn't let them take us. I think a lot of people would rather..." She hesitated, unsure what sort of language was appropriate for the company of navy sailors. "Sink?"

Rhiannon Kennedy adopted a casual stance that reflected Kaitlyn's nervousness and awkwardness. Thoughts of surrender weren't typically encouraged among military leadership, but present duty ironically demanded it. She exhaled. "I'd continue to engage the enemy so long as I believed my endeavors made a difference. If there was some tactical advantage in my efforts or my death, then a noble sacrifice it would be." She didn't dare talk of surrendering her arms even theoretically, but her words implied the contrapositive: Pointless resistance would shatter morale. "Of course, slumber would remove me from the fray proper quick," she chuckled.

Blockade Runners, Lifeboat of the BRP Conrado Yap - 10/11/2022, 19:43 UTC+8

Iker kept the radio on for transparency's sake. Murray's brave but increasingly frantic warnings sounded in the ambience. "Chuán zhèngzài xià chén, shàng- Ah, bugger!" The bullhorn amplified his yaup and was consequentially turned off. The roof above Iker heard Murray's knee hit its frame. "They got me!" Murray exclaimed. "I'm injured, but nothing vital. Punctured my left thigh."

The Arms Master clutched his chin in contemplation and thought aloud. "I can't change physical properties. I can barely alter momentum. I might not react in time..." He signaled to the Supply. "Awaiting orders, but I concentrate also on other matters. If you hear me writhing in agony; that's normal." The comms then relayed strained screaming from Orozco.

Another bullet struck the Australian seaman, but he announced it openly. "My chest... They appear to shoot... bottlecaps? Coins? Little domed, flat objects; never seen them before! They couldn't penetrate my upper torso. Hurt like hell, though."

That wasn't the Chinese doing. As hypothesized, the larger cross section evenly distributed the impact. Not a moment too soon, either. "Keep talking," Orozco groaned.

"Right," Murray concurred, striking up the loudspeaker. "Shàng chuán zǒu ba!"

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:44 UTC+8

"For what they did to Murray?" Kennedy commented, "Say the word; we'll blast them."

Keep calm and carry on. It wasn't the most motivating line to quote, but it was something. The situation got worse, and Kaitlyn still sat on her ass twiddling her thumbs. Because you're useless. You're worse than useless, actually. Your actions just got a man shot!

No, that's not my fault–

First rule of leadership, Kaitlyn, everything is your fault.

She felt cold, and a little light headed. "Myron, drop the sleeping gas." Despite her temples' low drumming, her voice rang clear. "Captain, we'll probably be discovered very soon, so I won't stop you from firing on them. However, could we target their weapons specifically? Take out their means of a counteroffensive. Clarify their two options."

She gripped Hannie's shoulder harder before realizing what she was doing and relaxing slightly. "God help me," she murmured under her breath. Kaitlyn hadn't killed men before. She remembered that beach, a second sun blazing in the sky. Screams. A barrier breaking.

Myron momentarily slowed down, almost losing a valuable second from sudden surges of pessimism and weariness. He was tired of a fight for redemption that would never come. He grit his teeth and 'uploaded' the data-converted sleeping agent onto every open PLA communications device. Aerosol tranquilizers flooded the opposing vessel. The nonfatal weapon if inhaled would cause drowsiness then unconsciousness among their foes, saving Iker and Murray from inevitable death.

Myron assured Kaitlyn, "It's easy to resign yourself to dying and killing after seeing how hard it is to save lives. But to be honest, don't stop doing so... It took me a long time to see that lives are precious."

Blockade Runners, Lifeboat of the BRP Conrado Yap - 10/11/2022, 19:45 UTC+8

The horizon's stars sparkled through the gas, first atop the radar array, then around the bridge, then across the vessel's abdomen. The spared sections were the bow's tips and the helicopter pad that covered the ship's tail. If seamen operated on those sections, they didn't engage. The Yap entered firing range of even its small arms, but the guns remained silent.

Iker commented, "Visual on sleeping agent. Moving to board the vessel." He accelerated to full speed, fastened the steering wheel, and peeked onto the roof. Murray acknowledged Iker with a brief nod, lying down and applying pressure to his wound. Iker saw a pool of dark liquid on the bright orange surface and descended. Were there personal air filtration systems aboard? Thank God yes, and two. More presently, Iker found alcohol and bandages, and ascended to apply both to Murray's thigh. Murray's grit his teeth but kept silent. Afterwards, Orozco knelt and extended his hand. "Can you walk?"

Murray grimaced. "Fuck you, 'Can I-'"

"I ask you if you want to be a hero." Iker's face was cold and stern in the starlight as he presented a mask. Boarding a sinking ship to carry limp bodies to safety was a harrowing situation already, twice so with a faulty leg.

Murray received the message. "I, I can walk."

"Excellent," Orozco quipped, his voice lacking consolation, his empathy merely assumed. He descended again and directed the wayward vessel to the ship's aft.

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:46 UTC+8

An overwhelmingly successful operation warranted applause, but tension aboard the Supply was only briefly alleviated. The most afforded was a sigh of relief across the command deck. Of course, the operation wasn't fully successful, was it? By Kaitlyn's standards, all lives must be saved. By Kennedy's, the blockade runner must reach Mischief Reef and return. The night was longer yet. "Minutes to interception, Lockwood?"

"Three, I believe," Electronics responded. Every moment was precious.

There, they made it. You can shut up now.

Yes, now the two of them must haul an entire ship's worth of doomed men onto a boat in three minutes. Congratulations, Private Price!

Kaitlyn frowned, imagining mockingly slow applause.

Could she improve the situation? The gas didn't appear to flood the whole ship. Some crew must still be awake, and they'll want to rescue their comrades, so it wouldn't just be Iker and Murray. She'd like to speed up the process, though.

She opened her mouth to state intentions but froze. What, she's going to go down there and help the evacuation? Wasn't she Team B's 'leader'? The leader isn't supposed to put themselves in harm's way.

But was Kaitlyn really a leader, so valuable as to be indispensable? I'm just a private, about as nobody as you get.

"I'm going too." She finally released Hannie, turning her attention to Myron. "I'll need a gas mask." She suspected Kennedy would have one and would speak up if Myron failed to produce one. She's doing this. She's contributing. She may not be the strongest soldier, but she was a soldier. She could help evacuate a few men.

Myron, seeing opportunity to help, retrieved a gas mask. "I've learned to prepare for everything. Remember: I've fought since I was your ward's age." Her ward; that was what Hannie was to her, wasn't she?

"Depart with my blessing," Kennedy saluted Kaitlyn. "Let's lower our expeditionary boats to assist. We ourselves will not deviate from our present course."

Blockade Runners, PLA Navy Ship Luzhou - 10/11/2022, 19:48 UTC+8

The orange lifeboat docked underneath the opposing patrol's side. Murray gulped. "So, how do we ascend?"

Iker shrugged. "I figure there's rope somewhere, attached to a weight. We'll grapple using that."

A rooftop thunk stilled the musing. Iker adjusted his facial covering and inspected the incident. A rope ladder ascended to the patrol's fenced rim. A sailor gazed downwards and hailed them, a gas mask similarly encompassing his head. He was fortunate to have reacted to the sleeping agent in time, as the ASEAN delegates were that his magnanimity overshadowed his desire for vengeance. "Bāng wǒ xiè xià zhèxiē shītǐ!" came his muffled plea.

"Xièxiè; lǐjiě zhěngjiùle nǐ de chuányuán," Murray accepted, bowing in sympathy.

Iker climbed aboard without hesitation, Murray limping behind. On deck, he found himself surrounded by unconscious seamen and a handful of masked former adversaries, all recently hauled from their posts. Iker slung his first catch and promptly lowered. Many hands caused light work, so the adage went. Bodies piled up at the contact location, and descended as expediently as possible.

The HMAS Supply appeared on the horizon, flanked by two small craft. The Yap soon decelerated beside the enemy patrol, and a second connection was made for direct transfer. Within minutes, the sides of the massive blockade runner barely avoided hitting the PLA bow as it cruised past at full speed, and what felt like a toy fleet encompassed the sinking vessel.

"Wǒmen bǎ tāmen dōu zhuā dàole ma?" Murray inquired of his Chinese counterpart.

"Wǒ rènshí de měi gèrén."

Murray sighed and clutched his aching knee. "We got everyone," he announced to Iker.

Iker manned his radio. "This is Orozco. Operation successful, amusingly. Boarding escape ships and departing."

@SkyHresvelg@Aisede@Lewascan2@Sniblet@Conscripts@Gerlando@Creative Chaos@Nimbus@KaiserElectric@Landaus Five-One@Letter Bee

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

The Meld - Morning

Lacking air conditioning, adequate plumbing, and electricity, the Meld greeted passersby rather inhospitably. Nonetheless, a pair of welcome signs (posted at the property's front and tacked onto the entrance) announced, "Now Serving: Breakfast Amenities, Six Caps."

One stranger accepted the invitation, a pleasant rarity, and sat at the table consuming eggs and bacon. The wayfarer ate quietly, nary a sound occupying the kitchen save the faint crackle of the furnace. He occasionally glanced at the opposite wall, on which a dozen small crafts hung from pegged nails. "Potholders, Handkerchiefs, Et Cetera: Fifteen Caps" was painted on a once discarded wooden slab beneath them.

Having concluded her occupational duties, Charlotte warmed her digits beside the dazzling glow, hesitant to choke the flame so soon after ignition. Amber rounded the corner, accidentally bumping her peer's hands into scalding metal in passing. "Ah, watch it!" Charlotte exclaimed, facing her assailant. Running water absent, she sucked the tips of her fingers to keep them from permanent burn damage.

Amber turned around and bowed meekly. "My apologies; I'm terribly sorry!" She bore a lavender dishcloth, presumably another item to hang from a nail. Resuming her haste, she rearranged each article for the seventh time that week and set the rag in its rightful position.

The stranger placed his fork down, the tips of its prongs touching the ceramic surface, as was proper etiquette. Searching his pocket for straggling caps, he inquired: "I don't recognize this location. You arrived in Vegas recently?"

"We've been active for several years," Charlotte commented, "But we established a restaurant a couple weeks ago. How was your meal?"

The patron perused his plate. "Nothing original or unique, but it was simple and nice: how I appreciate my eggs, usually. An excellent product, worthy of the caps."

A wave of self satisfaction engulfed Charlotte; compliments like those didn't generally come from her compatriots. This was validation of her place in the wider world. She suppressed her inmost glee, responding with a milquetoast, "Well, feel free to come back anytime!"

The diner scooted his seat out but was interrupted by a pompous rapping at the door. Sun rays pierced through the cracks made by each pounding on the doorframe. Amber exchanged looks with her peer, mild trepidation covering both. It wasn't the rhythmic taps of familiar residents, and the guests's entrances were rarely so forthcoming. Well, it might be... Charlotte eyed her husband's rifle and breathed carefully. "It's open!" she squeaked.

The door gave way. A massive, tall, olive skinned, dirty blonde, hulking female blocked the light. She stomped her way in. A male of similar build, height, and complexion followed, considerably gentler in entrance. The woman pointed at the client. "Who is he?"

Charlotte responded just as authoritatively. "A guest of import. Why do you ask?"

The consumer looked up at the two colossi. "If it's any bother, I can depart-"

"No, you're fine. Amber will run your tab," Charlotte assured. On cue, the redhead finished sprucing her arts and crafts section to assist the gentleman. "Isabel: It's an honor," Charlotte saluted.

Isabel responded coldly. "We are in a professional environment, in the presence of an outsider. You will address me by my title and suit, Queen of Hearts."

"Ages have passed since the Vault, eh?" Charlotte lamented. "Protocol demands that colony policies overrule Vault policy on colonial holdings. Danny has habitually addressed us by our given name as opposed to our title."

"Rules, not policies," corrected Isabel, looking down her nose at her colleague. "Unless expressly written, historical precedent will not forego decorum."

Potentially afraid of invoking the newcomers' ire, the customer murmured to Amber, "Are these prior patrons of yours? I've never seen them around the Strip."

The giantess did overhear him, walked towards him, and placed her hand upon his former chair. "I am Isabel Moore, Queen of Clubs." She motioned to the giant. "He is Justin Moore, King of Clubs."

"Are you two married or something?" was the obvious reply.

The chair creaked and groaned under Isabel's grip. Her eyes alit with flame and frustration, though she remained still and statuesque. "No, we are siblings."

"Good thing we had Hinshaw's reforms; otherwise, we'd have been both!" blissfully quipped the male, wholly ignorant of (or purposely ignoring) his sister's irritation. "Nobody expected brother and sister to draw a royal marriage; that's a one in seventy two-"

"Justin: Shut it," Isabel uttered through gritted teeth. "Especially not before outsiders." She returned to the matter at hand. "Our Happy Trails contacts informed us that you spent roughly five thousand caps on a painting."

"Yes, to improve relations with the NCR's recently appointed emissary," Charlotte countered.

"Be that as it may, it's raised concerns over your expenditures. I need you to open up your books."

Charlotte complied without hesitation, opening up a newly constructed drawer and pulling out a manilla folder. "If Henry-"

"The Ace of Clubs."

"If Henry didn't trust Daniel to make the right decisions, he would've sent an Ace instead." She handed the dossier over.

Isabel's pudgy fingers parsed the pages with surprising deftness, skimming certain contents but intensely scanning the numbers. The customer handed off six caps to Amber, questions blatantly lingering in his noggin. Amber noticed and encouraged him: "Feel free to ask!"

"I didn't peg her for analysis," he whispered. "What in tarnation is an 'Ace' in this context?"

Amber's eyes lit up. "Oh, we sort ourselves at birth by cards in a pinochle deck." She recited the ruleset in a manner resembling glee. "Nines do grunt labor, Jacks oversee transportation and storage, Queens are middle management, Kings negotiate and coordinate, Tens do clerical work, and Aces are upper leadership. Among other elements, as duties arise. She just happened to be assigned the role of Queen. It's not what she was built for, but what she was trained for. Potentially what she was born for!"

Isabel shot a momentary death glare at the Nine of Hearts for revealing the Vault's inner workings but resumed her analysis. She pointed to a number. "You spent eight hundred caps on bacon."

"An admitted mistake," Charlotte explained. "We anticipated an initial revenue stream far surpassing our actual. You'll note the same situation with other supplies. We managed to resell the surplus at a discount, as catalogued the following week."

Isabel grunted in acknowledgment and resumed progress. After a minute's silence, she closed the book and returned it to Charlotte. "Your affairs are mostly in order. The few discrepancies I discovered are negligible. That aside, the Ace of Clubs-"

"Henry," Charlotte prodded.

A crack emerged in the chair's woodwork. "The Ace of Clubs has seen fit to situate myself and my brother under the Nine's purview. I'm to acquire lodging immediately." While doubtless her voice would have boomed throughout the structure, she instead opted for a low, "Where is he?"

Amber escorted her client out the egress before he got any more uncomfortable. "Well, you see-"

The Queen of Clubs tolerated no dotards. "Where is he?"

Danny "Nines" Floyd - New California Embassy - Morning, October 18th

Daniel's mood had soured considerably. Sonny's threat was taken with gravity and sincerity, and the four had left silently and respectfully. As leaders ought, he didn't transfer the natural consequences of the day's mishaps onto his subordinates but took responsibility himself. That meant that, once the artwork was safely transported to the embassy's interior, he alone balanced the masterpiece atop its frame and guarded it from theoretical assailants as his underlings got well deserved rest. The only stimuli he faced, however, were weird glances and redundant inquiries, all of which were unfailingly dismissed with, "Business of the ambassador. None of your concern. Go about your day."

He attempted to avoid eye contact with the secretary while she worked the desk. He recalled her offer to safeguard his deposit; doubtless she thought similarly, she with mirth and he with remorse. He was mature enough to reverse a mistake when it mattered, but the small minutiae of presentation could afford his pride. Sunk cost and whatnot.

Nosy inquisitors gradually decreased in frequency. Casinos operated late into the night, but even then certain hours pushed their limitations. Daniel stayed awake the entire night, whether out of duty or sheer bullheadedness even he didn't know. He was made grumpy, but his senses had dulled him and prevented him from acting upon his foul demeanor. He simply lurked calmly above the jagged bedrock of his emotions, an unfortunate place to be.

When he spotted the emissary, he exercised his last remnant of adrenaline and strolled up to the gentleman. He summoned the finest salutation his fatigue could muster: "Ah, Ambassador Watts! Fancy meeting you here." He mentally cussed himself out for an introduction that asinine, but trudged forward regardless. "As welcome into the region, we present you this exquisite oil on canvas, to remind you of old culture and your new home. Right from the pursestrings of the Ace of Clubs-" ...Henry? "Henry Hinshaw, the Ace of Clubs, to your back wall! Let it be known that the Pinochle Expedition will move mountains for its friends: quite literally!"

Daniel's tiptoe didn't flatter as he snagged the top corner of the covering, and he had to repeat the action. Sky blues and white clouds peeked out at first until the entire cover collapsed altogether, revealing the vibrant Bierstadt landscape:

Mount Corcoran

"If alternative decor can spruce up your office space, please contact us. We have connections and caps aplenty, and we'd love to share in our bounty." He felt his adrenaline's empty light blinking. "Unless there's further business, I must depart. Homesteading is unrelenting work!"

Rise of Rasalhague

Collaboration between Fuka, Jaromir, and Hamazasp

Hamazasp perused his clock: he'd successfully surpassed two hours of sedentary reading. The battlefield's wandering might occupy an afternoon, but the reading period surpassed his expectations of survival once directly engaged. He diagnosed himself: this length of seating was adequate, and nothing fell asleep. He stretched and stowed his novel carefully in order.

He departed his cockpit and routed his way towards quarters: the intended sleeping place, though the Locust was surprisingly comfortable and doubtlessly better cushioned. He passed and ignored several wayward locations, future amenities for less introductory periods.

Fuka familiarized herself with the Dragon and deemed it suitable: massive and bulky. It possessed armor and speed, both sufficient to compensate for her shortcomings as a pilot. She’d never enact brilliant strategies or perform backflips in her 'mech. She was a refined marksman and a superior brawler and through the Dragon could excel in either discipline. Not that she wouldn’t upgrade if opportunities emerged; her AC/5 was a little anemic for her liking. Once the team spread pirates across the landscape, there'd be abundant salvage to parse through, provided Alvin didn’t protest over civil rights.

She stalked the hallways with the aimless aggression of a friendly shark, the gently happy expression she wore morphing into a toothy grin as a flight mate approached. “Hey boss, can you help? Won’t take beyond a few minutes.”

Hamazasp froze, then glanced behind him to ensure she requisitioned him. The House Kurita amazon who at introduction earned herself a reputation of rubbing her teammates the wrong way and toying with them as she pleased now propositioned him for a brief favor. Unprepared for this encounter, he instinctively stepped backwards but piped, “Certainly, what’s the issue?” Locked into engagement, he resignedly assembled a slight, surprisingly more genuine smile.

She recognized him by looks as opposed to name, the bearded man with the thick coat and weird cheek tattoo who spoke like he was constantly kowtowing to some noble or another. Of course, Fuka was minor nobility and thus found his speech amusing. “Oh there’s no problem, I’m just down a partner: here, follow me.”

Without waiting for response, she barreled down the hallway at a walk that matched most people’s jog. If the Gent (as she'd already taken to calling him) wasn’t inclined, he wouldn’t pursue; no use in wasting words. “We’re going to the crew lounge, there’s some ratty shag carpet or something there. It’ll cushion our falls.”

Hamazasp attempted to guess what required a couplet falling onto a carpet. Most options were wholly inappropriate for brief acquaintances. …Trust falls? He appreciated confirmations of reliability in dire combat situations, especially seeing as he’d lost that assurance in prior encounters. Her final words passed out of earshot.

Fuka hadn’t expected to lose her tail (whose name she'd yet to ask) but wasn’t particularly surprised. She habitually moved faster than the world desired, long legs ferrying her at speeds that always seemed a tad high for the situation. It spoke to her impatience and desire for attention, her constant scurrying unbecoming of Draconis samurai…

…or so she'd been told, anyway. The criticism likely bore truth, but since when had criticism ever concerned her?

Pseudo abandoned, Hamazasp flagged a passerby. “Pardon, how might I locate the lounge?” The tech silently, irritatedly motioned out directions, and Hamazasp casually retraced the instructions to the destination. A minute passed between the two entrances. If she desired a partner so desperately, a modicum of patience sufficed, so he surmised. The wait let him preemptively regret his decisions, anyways.

He knocked on the doorway's rim, scanned the enclosure for concerns, then focused on the madam. She already slipped out of her boots as he entered. “Very well; I'm available," he stated. "What activity have you organized?”

“Sparring! It’s better to practice with live bodies and you look tough enough. No head shots obviously,” she announced, dropping into a low stance, grinning wide and inviting as she raised her arms.

While grateful to avoid his envisions, Hamazasp hadn’t calculated this possibility because such pastimes rarely crossed his mind. Having operated within the Draconis Combine, he’d naturally been exposed secondhand. His knowledge's extent didn’t surpass an introductory course; his sparring partners being minors, he promptly dropped the interest.

He discarded his shoes and coat; regardless, if she required a punching bag, he’d comply. His posture reflected European medieval martial arts, most notably the “plow,” the most balanced he could replicate. He lacked the appropriate sword for the position. Her sharp eyes detected a modicum of training, his stance foreign to her but undeniably ready. He maintained two advantages: he was well read and possessed endurance for a severe beating. He’d undoubtedly lose this engagement, but he’d make a valiant, arguably "honorable," effort. “No hard feelings, I suppose; you appear well versed on the subject.”

Quite capable of being competitive without spoiling her fun, she'd kick the gentleman’s ass to keep her ego intact. “I’m pretty good but hey, it’s all fun: no hard feelings.”

Hamazasp rarely despised a phenomenon greater than a braggart taking pride in obvious or unearned advantages. The rich flaunting wealth at the poor, the gambler with a full house displaying his fanned cards as a peacock's feathers, the victor dancing above the victim. “I’m pretty good” was weightier than Fuka considered as she casually dropped the line, and it took Sulser immense patience to suppress his emotions. Of course she excelled; it was the farmhand’s duty to determine how much.

He remained motionless for an uncomfortable amount of time. She kept stock-still as the moments ticked on, happy to let his counterpart commence while she sized up his defenses. Fighting on foot brought a very different side of Fuka, the boisterous 'mech brawler set aside for careful reactions and counter reactions.

Obviously she’d dodge his lunge and attempt to capitalize, he mused. He should feign one attempt and strike with a second. When amply ready, he shoved his left palm towards her stomach's right side, then chopped the air with his offhand towards her left hip. Given circumstances, worse options existed.

Instead of deflecting she elected to step back, neatly avoiding that first feint but in range of the true attack. Her forearm blocked that, retaliating with a quick kick at the shins to give herself breathing room. The faster Fuka employed her full range of motion, the better; those long limbs were for more than running.

His shins hurt, but please; bovines had casually taken shots at his legs for years, and he’d grown accustomed to tanking the pain. His bones weren’t broken; he bore it sturdily. If his career on the Shinonoi ranch taught him anything, it was how to handle larger creatures than himself. And it was time for cow tipping.

With his free arm, and a free leg, he advanced forward, ignoring entirely the concept of personal space. Attempting to poke at whatever seemed vulnerable, his actions reflected less method and more flailing noise. That was the intention: blind her to all else. Once sufficiently kerfuffled, Hamazasp theorized, a slight push would send the titan hurtling downward.

Hilariously, Fuka found herself on the receiving end of her favorite 'mech strategy: don’t stop swinging. It wasn’t an ineffective strategy, and often the best for beginners. No time to fumble barely remembered strategies, no tripping over your own half formed stance, just constant movement to overwhelm your opponent.

But Fuka was capable enough to weather and counter, tucking her chin behind her arms in a traditional boxer’s stance as her partner rushed. He could pat and slap but would never receive easy access. She kept her center low and solid as she braced against the assault.

Her mechanical arm wasn’t stronger than her flesh-and-blood alternate but didn't tire; she snatched out with it, attempting to grip the man’s wrist. The counteraction succeeded, halting Hamazasp’s mad rush. Cowherd that he was, the Taurian lacked the proper physique to directly counter the amazon’s play. Her grip was tight, so he couldn’t slip away. He had moments, but his education in other disciplines (notably armored warfare) at minimum taught him impromptu action. He simply didn’t excel at it.

His arm was incapacitated, but so was hers; his remaining available limbs sufficed. He removed himself as range permitted, twisting his arm in her grasp and ducking. He swiveled around and pushed himself backward, his spine pressed against Fuka’s lower torso. His leg tried to reach her leg to lock it in place. Now fully enclosed within his adversary, he could with an amenable position drag her across him onto the ground. It was an extremely vulnerable position, quite handily thwart-able. High risk, high reward.

He provided a damn fine try but was nonetheless outmatched. She retained her grip even as he attempted to twist out of it, moving her feet to keep her legs from total entanglement. She had freedom of movement to shift herself but must act quickly.

“Y’know, I realized something.”

Her arms snagged his middle without any warning beyond words. The samurai grunted in effort as she lifted her partner’s feet off the ground and slammed him into the carpet.

“I never got your name.”

Hamazasp was too preoccupied, first with the counterattack and next with the pain, to fully grasp her comment. Steadfastly hunched, he landed squarely on his buttocks. He’d feel the repercussions through tomorrow’s engagement. Unsurprisingly, the Japanese amazon warrior woman possessed strength.

He relaxed himself, gradually orientating himself in his new position. He dragged himself up, then bowed in earnest salute as was custom of House Kurita. “Sulser, Hamazasp."

"Nakano, Fuka," she reciprocated.

The Taurian arose and promptly excused himself, "Pardon, my sleeping quarters await.” With that, he promptly departed the lounge.

------------------------

Trial and error plagued his route to his cabin, but he eventually arrived at his destination. His book was undisturbed, but another Mechwarrior slept in the above bunk, as the dim twilight suggested. Hamazasp accustomed to the new lighting and judged that his new bunkmate was that freed Davion slave. It appeared that he’d be receiving both ends of the baggage train. He hoped the second didn't hurt nearly as much as the first. Nonetheless, he’d make his comrade feel welcome.

His voice made no noise, but he didn’t bother to mask his footsteps, or the soft yet unmistakable rustling of his clothes' fabric. In the darkness, he ravaged his backpack for a pocket flashlight. Upon obtaining it, he opened up his novel and parsed its pages for ants and found none. He scoured his bed for ants and found none. He was relieved that he had no immediate obligations; he was presently in no state to care for other lifeforms.

He mounted the uncomfortable cot and alighted his book's black prose. He managed to conclude another chapter, but his brain hurt from the stark contrast in illumination. He slipped the book into his backpack, turned off his flashlight, and dropped it in to follow. If lazy ants still inhabited the pouch, he abandoned the (literal) little buggers to fend for themselves.

He tossed and turned in artificial gravity; his mindset wasn't yet appropriately wired for the new environment. Once the aching concluded and fatigue set in, Hamazasp dreamed that he wandered through a labyrinth filled with meadows. A feeling of hopelessness beset him, counteracted by the beautiful purple flowers. He met a heifer at the midway point of the maze. He sat crisscross and asked the heifer a few questions about the meaning of life. The bovine began to explain by discussing the physics behind jump drives, then wandered away to locate greener grass. The Taurian conveyed to collegiate students these teachings at a university, and he inspired a plethora of doctorates. Suddenly, a locomotive cracked the classroom, headed straight for our protagonist.

He woke up to self propagated darkness and pain, as he was certain his bunk mate did every morning in a separate sense. He rolled around. That must’ve been eight hours, right? Regardless, his body had chosen to arise and wouldn’t return to slumber; 'twas best to supply it. He stumbled upright. He had a change of clothes, but he’d postpone that for a lighter room and a less groggy mood.

------------------------

For a fresh merc outfit, the food was…surprisingly not complete and utter dog shit. Jaromir shoveled a bite of breakfast into his mouth, washing it with watery coffee. It wasn’t good by any means, but “not awful” was practically gourmet for military cuisine as it stood. For mercs, the difference in quality was starker. They'd recently deployed with supplies just loaded. It remained to be seen how long halfway decent supplies would last before powdered eggs and instant coffee surfaced.

While eating, Jaromir studied the sparse mission data on his tablet. His expectations for the newly-founded nation's hires were moderate, but the god damn Vikings couldn’t manage that. He set the tablet with a mildly disgusted groan and returned to his breakfast.

Sulser stumbled in. His eyes seemed completely shut, though his swift reactions to obstacles suggested a slight crack. His tray would have defied gravity by keeping upright; as they were in space, they defied physics. The meal clattered onto a table by Jaromir, a single drop of suspicious fruit juice spilling out of the cup. Its brief suspension reminded Hamazasp that he operated in foreign gravity, not that the reminder was necessary after his horrid prior evening of slumber.

He phlumped onto a seat and stared at his breakfast for an age. He didn’t touch alcohol but nonetheless felt hungover. He wished he was drunk, with revelry to compensate for his mental state. Pancakes and hash browns. His singular piece of fresh meat was a substandard sausage. He’d sacrifice for the others, or, if luck allowed, for lunch. He glanced at Jaromir with baggy, weary pupils. “Late night: the Draconis girl asked me to… you know what, not worth it.” He sectioned off his territory with a fork.

Hearing the slamming tray, Jaromir glanced up and raised his good eyebrow at the man sitting across from him. Boy, did he look like shit. He wasn't surprised that the Combine girl was involved again: regular little social butterfly, if an obsessed jockey counted as social. He briefly weighed whether or not he actually gave enough of a shit to ask what exactly happened. If his neighbor suddenly decided against sharing, it wasn’t his business to pry. Not directly, at least.

”You look like hell.” Jaromir grunted as he cut up a piece of breakfast sausage and chomped. ”And that’s coming from the guy with half his face burnt off. Decided to check the bar last night? Our resident Kurita foot soldier did strike me as a party girl.”

“Party, my entire behind,” Hamazasp stated, rubbing the mentioned object. “I know Kurita customs for festivities, and that wasn’t it,” he sighed. “I'd show you the bruise here, but I figure it’s implied. Who practices hand combat for armored warfare?" He plugged his fork into his mouth, weathering the fatigued mental storm inside. He swallowed. “A samurai, that’s who. Gosh dang, that entire warrior culture demands an overhaul.” He took a sip. “Don’t tell any Draconis I said that. Yourself?”

Jaromir suppressed a snort as he swigged his orange juice. Not concentrate, either: a miracle of God.

”You said yes? I mean, I don’t blame you if you wanted to punch her in the face a little. I can see the excuse, at least. Neurohelmet means it’s good to learn to keep your balance after getting rattled.” He spoke after a couple more bites. ”Where’d you get your training from, anyway? Gonna hazard a guess, Combine?”

Hamazasp planted a fork into a sausage. “No training whatsoever.” The introductory course from years ago didn’t count. “She merely informed me she required an individual for matters that required cushions in the crew lounge, and I figured-” he pointed his sausage at Jaromir. “Not what you’re thinking. I wished to improve group cohesion. I doubt anything was improved, regardless of my actions. And now I’m unreasonably sore, hours from battle.” He ate, then quietly finished his meal's protein centerpiece. “Nonetheless, inform me if you’d appreciate assistance of a separate, nonphysical substance. What of your endeavors?”

Jaromir nearly choked on his coffee. This guy couldn't have meant what he thought he meant. A few hacking coughs later, the Capellan caught his breath enough to reply. ”Read the intel, slept like a baby. That’s not important; let’s return to you. The hell do you mean, you’ve had no training? You mean no hand to hand, right? Tell me either you can pilot a BattleMech or you’re screwing with me.”

Hamazasp reset his fork. His voice bore a softer volume than his words implied. “I can pilot a BattleMech. I’d embark with military ranks otherwise, on an actually space worthy ship. Wasn’t the conversation about hand combat? Sheesh.” He relaxed and eyed his hashbrown. “Apologies; I cite my mental state to explain, not to excuse. I likely don’t share your battle experience, but I have mobilized a ‘mech and operated its firearms. A Spider, if it pleases you, and yes, Combine. You may rely on me in battle. Well, you may after I’ve finished this hashbrown.”

Thank god for small mercies. At least the guy was just fucking with him. Jaromir sighed as he leaned back in his seat, his meal all but concluded.

Sulser bit the fried potatoes and closed his eyes. He didn’t seem to savor it but to quiet himself internally. The meal bore no nuance; immediately swallowing or internally reflecting made no difference. He should’ve affirmed inadequate experience and watched Jaromir momentarily flip. Hamazasp only abided so much underestimation in a twenty-four hour timespan. He cleared his mouth, then his throat. “Anything in the intel strike you as curious? I noticed a few details in places, but nothing worth bringing to attention.”

”Alright, sorry, had to make sure. Wouldn’t believe the kinds of people that sneak into the hiring halls sometimes. As for the intel, I noticed only the lack of it. We’ve got topographical data and that’s it. I'm certain the boss’ll lay it out.”

The immediate question on Hamazasp’s mind was what unskilled labor managed to infiltrate the hiring halls, but he tabled that musing for later. “Thanks; I perused it prior, but another review seems tempting.”

Jaromir finished his coffee and returned his mug. ”Be careful out there, alright? Even if the pirates don’t have surprises, it’d be downright embarrassing for anyone to get taken out by Locusts. Don’t need to be bleeding people in our first drop.”

“Same goes both ways!” Hamazasp smiled, then shook his head. “Whoops; I referred to the enemy. You take care as well to be certain, but I operate a Locust myself in this upcoming scuffle. It’d be rather shocking for everyone involved if I appeared on the scoreboard! Myself included, I suppose,” he chuckled. “Pleasure meeting you, Jaromir. You seem a genuine fellow, and this was certainly not the worst encounter I’ve had aboard this vessel. Potentially the best.” He raised his juice glass to that notion.

”Your only other meeting in this outfit so far involved you getting punched out. That bar’s so low it’s underground.” Jaromir snarked in response, though he raised his emptied mug regardless. "Genuine" was a rare compliment, though any compliment was rare. He stood up with his tray. ”CO said to meet in the orientation room at noon sharp. Don't be late; no point in him getting pissy before our drop. Maybe get a snooze in before then.”

“Concurred; Morning,” Hamazasp replied. He gazed into his cup as his compatriot’s footsteps faded into the multitude. A conglomerate operated best when individual components functioned in tandem. In a mere sixteen hours, he’d learned his comrades' calibers, and discovered what caliber he must possess to compensate.

Rasalhague's assigned mechanic had less experience than he; Hamazasp should be knowledgeable. His bunk mate brought baggage that he couldn’t carry; Hamazasp should emotionally fortify himself. The dragoness used and dismissed individuals on a whim; Act in humility and grow strong independently. Only the grizzled veteran was apparently reliable, and he underestimated Hamazasp. The Taurian cheese maker had plenty to prove. Brief rest was sage advice. He concluded his beverage and collected his tray. Before then, he’d check if they allowed additional helpings of the hash browns and pancakes.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Gomorrah Front Entrance - The Disturbance

Charlotte appeared more disgusted by the concept of barbecue sauce ruining her dress than fearful of the threat of deathclaws. She dusted off her apparel at the mere thought, as if the condiment was already upon her. It seemed that Sonny struck a nerve, in multiple ways.

"'That thing' is a priceless, centuries old Bierstadt," Amber hissed, attempting to return the insult she was dealt with full (hundred fifty) honors. "I bet it's worth five times your annual-"

Amber wasn't helping. This security guard wasn't bound by inner propriety, and Daniel effortlessly imagined him punching a hole in the canvas to "ruin your day, see how youse like it, huh bub?" Danny regarded it as the worst case scenario not for the permanent, irreparable loss of culture from the world but simply because he'd have spent a King's ransom of caps and an entire morning of labor for naught. That situation would really crease his cards, and was becoming increasingly likely.

He lifted his open palm gradually. "Relax, sweetheart; I'll handle this." He raised his other to pose a casual surrender. "This was a simple matter. We had no intentions of interrupting your business, and we can compensate. If you're willing to throw hands and risk a scuffle from the North for fifteen minutes of pause, I'm sure your patrons will appreciate the sudden uptick in violence in this quiet haven." Nines trusted this man to detect the tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

"Yeah, I always wanted to make an example out of an Omertas thug!" Bradley shouted; putting up his dukes, wholly ignoring the rifle slung over his shoulder. Apparently he hadn't gotten the message.

Daniel closed his eyes. "Brad, shut it. In fact, drag the frame outward." Brad hesitated but complied, Charlotte managing Danny's side. Gamblers started shuffling in, while spectators gathered around and watched the powder keg in keen anticipation. Daniel reopened and shrugged. "Not even an half hour, well before tonight's peak. All we desired was to visit the ambassador. Perhaps when we unveiled this here painting, it would have been a spectacle unto itself—a crowd pleaser—but you're preoccupied enforcing the status quo." He shook his head. "So be it. If you could at least point us in Benjamin Watts's direction, we'll vacate the premises." He stepped lightly from the doorway to the breezy October gusts beyond.

Charlotte was silent but now offered an apologetic nod. "Sorry, we're new in town."

Danny bowed in social courtesy. "So, in what manner might we pay respects to a reputable institution such as yours? Name your price; the Pinochle Expedition is a boon to its friends. If you're unable to negotiate, maybe we can work it out with Fat Dom himself." Just for safety's sake, he murmured to his girlfriend, "You told Happy Trails to summon Vaulters down, correct?"

Amber was slightly perplexed yet reflected Daniel's volume. "Well, yes, but they won't arrive for several days."

Nines's countenance hinted at a wry smile. "Not for immediate reinforcements; only that we won't have perished unnoticed should things turn south."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

(Commander) Danny "Nines" Floyd - Embassy - Evening, October 16th

Floyd had tested a hundred separate explanations while experimenting with diplomacy. They either were insufficient or directed the listener too closely to his true origin. Nonetheless, he'd attempt his most successful. He scratched his head. "Pinochle is, in fact, a card game," Danny commenced. "We wanted to better resemble the general milieu. We were 48 strong when our faction first arose. We each had a designation." Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn Nine of Clubs. The plastic sheen bore nervous sweat which he wiped off. "But we are certainly a reputable organization, I assure you."

Annexation had remained a persistent rumor which NInes elected to dismiss. By merely mentioning it, the dignitary had given that speculation weight. Daniel swallowed. "Gloria van Graff. I'll keep an ear out for that name. Steelworks are expensive but lucrative; we'll manage."

He stood up. "I believe that's all the time I've allocated for this meeting. If amenable, please postpone zoning the northern reaches of town until an in depth conversation." His brief nod was an acknowledgment of respect. "My impressions are positive. New Vegas has a cornucopia of amenities and elements of civilization we'd consider exotic luxur-" Daniel paused. He was to hype his sponsors, not reveal it for its backwater nature. "Which we'd regard as unnecessary frivolities. Still, pleasure is indelibly linked to humanity. Expect future correspondence."

Daniel departed sheepishly. If the NCR was planning to claim the entire plot, he'd have to grease palms rather quickly.

Northwest Passage, "Meld" Outward Base: Midnight, October 17th

"So what's the plan now?" Charlotte asked.

The table was tense in the dim candlelight. The colony was on the brink of failure. Worse, Vault 48 might enter direct conflict with the Republic over territorial disputes. Floyd shrugged. "It's difficult to make friends with such a recent entry," he stated. "The best we should hope for would be for California to ignore us. They'd mark our territory as theirs on their map, but we'd control it in practice. No taxation, no regulations, et cetera."

"What 48 is to them already," Bradley commented. "We can handle that."

Daniel folded his hands. "There's a last element I've yet to mention. Benjamin Watts is a gentleman of immense culture, and he's looking to overhaul his office's aesthetic. I told him that we'd present something worthy of his stature. So," he turned to Amber, "no holds barred. Money is no object; Hinshaw would agree with me. Check with the Happy Trails Caravan, and fetch me a gift that will impress."

Amber lit up like a nuclear blast. "They informed me they'd return to Sacramento tomorrow; I'll rendezvous at dawn. I know precisely what to get him!"

Embassy - Noontime, October 17th

It was uncomfortably hot for an autumn day. Of course, it could simply be the additional workload that caused them the agony. The landscape oil on canvas was upright and covered by a tarp, and the two boys took one side apiece. Charlotte helped ease the burden and stabilize the procession. Amber, the expert, led the way, practically skipping as she strode down the streets. As they approached the embassy, Danny decided to voice his final displeasure.

"Damnation, couldn't you have traded for a nice small sculpture?"
"Hey, you instructed me to acquire an impressive work of art!" Amber defended.
"Yeah, but in terms of quality, not quantity! The confounded thing is seven by ten feet!"
"Look, once we unveil it, you'll see it's worth every bottle cap," she assured. "It's a gorgeous view of the Sierra Nevadas!"
"The caps don't even worry me," Danny complained. "Just how cumbersome it is."

Amber replaced Daniel as he entered the embassy and passed the casino area. He was flagged by a woman at reception. "Excuse me, sir. Where are you headed?"
Daniel casually saluted. "Business with the ambassador. We come to pay homage with an offering."
"He's currently away at the Gomorrah," the secretary revealed. "But if you deposit it by my desk, I'll ensure that-"
"Thank you, but we'll pass on that offer," Danny replied. Sunk cost fallacy: he'd worked so hard for the perfect moment; he'd settle for nothing less. He exited the building and hailed his people. "We're going to the Gomorrah."

Gomorrah - Afternoon, October 17th

The Gomorrah had seen strange sights aplenty, but this was unique among them. A crowd had gathered inside and outside the facility as four yokels blocked the doorway. The tall, flat cargo they carried wouldn't fit through without finagling. A man with a big blonde Dutch beard commanded from the rear. "No, turn it clockwise. No, that's counterclockwise; I'm doing it from your perspective. That's it. Reverse towards me; let's try this again." He looked around. "If someone notifies Ambassador Watts, we'd appreciate the gesture! He's negotiating here presently."

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

The FTL notification moderately concerned Hamazasp. His current accommodation didn't appear suitable for major motions in any direction. He must find an adequate position in seconds. He stood up and passed to a bolted ledge on the wall. Gripping it, he placed one foot in front to handle vertical momentum, then planted the other sideways for horizontal changes. He took an unnecessary deep breath. He'd merely been used to commercial passenger flights on ships whose age was counted in decades, not centuries.

He rode the jump as on a surfboard. Quite fitting, considering the fluid around him. As the nausea started to seize him, he glanced at the plasteel chair. Perhaps that would have sufficed, but he was grateful for his present stance. He despised surprises; they afforded him no chance to think. Regardless, the vessel exited hyperdrive, leaving him no worse for wear. He remained standing as his terrain question was answered. As soon as Ulrik sent data to his datapad, Hamazasp focused almost exclusively upon it, mildly acknowledging but largely ignoring his colleagues' rash banter. Collecting his backpack from the floor, he was the final rookie to evacuate, if only to squeeze in a few moments of study before another task awaited him.

Ankhanne, Mech Bay

His first motion was to pay the technicians homage. He approached the Slavic giantess and briefly bowed. "I am Hamazasp Sulser. I wished to commend you for your service. I'll attempt to maintain my battlemech and keep it as unscathed as the situation allows. If anything else assuages your workload, please inform me. I look forward to future cooperation, Elena." With a salute, he resumed his duties. He intended to uphold that promise, not for special preference and benefits. Lesser pilots might even have pursued romantic interests. No, though Elena was physically massive for a human, everything looked puny and minuscule from a cockpit. MechTechs often bore the brunt of the social totem pole. If his ten comrades wouldn't acknowledge her, then his respect would be tenfold.

His fellow mercenaries were in such a rush to the cornucopia's largest and flashiest. The heavy and a medium were both claimed, the single remainder outside the light class, singular beyond the 35 ton Panther, doubtless shortly to follow. Let the warriors have their fun; the big and bulky didn't interest him. He wasn't the best candidate for the titans, anyways, having sparingly little relative experience. No, he preferred something small and manageable which wouldn't punish him for his inaccuracy or his inability to maneuver. His favorite would go fast yet turn on a dime. In line with his vow to Elena, his choice would be free of pockmarks when the fight concluded, absent of signs of combat as it wouldn't be struck at all! And for that, his gaze shifted towards the left corner at the Locust. He marched off accordingly.

Pleased by its smooth feel, he brushed his hand against the Locust's clean paint. He hailed the technician beside him. "Halloo! Of what discrepancies should I be aware prior to mounting?"

She shook her head. "None, I suppose," she reported, "but I didn't bother to check much. I was helping Aaron fix that Urbanmech."

A futile endeavor, Sulser figured. Nobody wanted to operate the quintessential hybrid of powerlessness and clunkiness. Nonetheless, he scaled the ladder. "Have you checked it for airtightness yet?"

"Oh shoot, I forgot!" she despaired, fearful of her boss's wrath.

"Not to worry! If you don't mind fetching me a blower and a pressure gauge, I'd appreciate it!" Hamazasp popped open the hatch and situated himself. He noticed a plastic filament above the touchscreen, which he'd never encountered in a vehicle of this caliber. He hesitated to tear it off, and instead booted it up to be bombarded with a flurry of Swedish, of which he understood mere bits and pieces. "Logga in" and "diagnostik" were easy, but "kulspruta" and "kasta" presented more challenge. Still, it didn't require a detective to see the four-digit number starting in "303" to determine the treasure across which he'd stumbled.

He needed to protect his newfound gain. He lightly pinched his chin, then met with epiphany. Recalling exposure to the broader environment, he loudly announced, "Yuck! There's a dead sparrow in here!" and then calmly closed his door. Rats didn't nest up that far up, and birds too large couldn't fit in. The perfect fabrication.

His mechanic rushed to his aid with the requested materials. "Quiet in there! Elena's gonna come down on me like a hurricane!" she hissed.

"Climb inside," Hamazasp motioned. He nodded once she was safely aboard. "Apologies; I meant no collateral damage. Let's hook this up, shall we?"

They departed the biped together and initiated the experiment. The instrument's barometric readings changed dramatically; Rasalhague (or whomever they bought this from) made an excellent product. Hamazasp high fived his acquaintance, and the two dismantled the configuration. "What do they call you, cadet?"

"Sigrid Lundqvist," she replied.

"Well, madam," Hamazasp commented. "I hope for further success with you!"

She smiled. "Alright, I'm off to assist elsewhere."

He bade her farewell. "Take care!" He reclaimed his seat and unslung his sack. The monitor greeted him with "Namn." He reflected on his infinite options. He recalled his cheese industry career, to poor Clara. Remarkably smart for a bovine, she could tell her fate the day Sulser gave it to her. Every cow he slaughtered in the twilight of his dairy business turned into a good steak dinner except for her. Her, a queen among cattle, he buried. His eyes got misty. It was right that he honor her memory. He punched in the letters: "Ayrshire," her breed.

Next item. He identified a proper nook, an edge of the dashboard's rim, and he began to cram it with the plethora of novels he'd brought along. Some were the last copies he knew in existence. Maybe it was reckless to trudge them into battle. Oh well. He sighed after the assortment was formatted by author name, then pulled out Weakness: A Ternary Star Adventure. He'd ensure eight hours of sleep later, but presently he'd get comfortable in his prize.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

(Commander) Danny "Nines" Floyd - New California Embassy - Evening, October 16th

"I'm certainly no casino man," Daniel quipped with a smile. With all the duties of outpost maintenance, he couldn't allocate time for gambling, not that a massive waste of caps interested him. "But I shall follow in regardless."

Danny passed through the games hall, peering over shoulders at the amounts of capital spent here. It surpassed his personal budget; he feared that he'd have to engage in card play to impress the citizens around here. He'd be a laughing stock if he went broke. The Ace of Clubs probably could spare him a sizable sum should the situation require it. Diplomatic efforts and whatnot.

Daniel perused the tchotchke organized around the office. It might have been slightly tacky, and wholly inappropriate for his own abode, but at least something covered the walls and floorboards. He wished the Meld had similar decoration. "Oh, either works. So long as you don't call me Flo." His guffaw skirted the border between fake and genuine. He was, in fact, called Flo by a particularly annoying superior back home, and Danny was helpless to reciprocate in the pre-Hinshaw era. How times have changed. He sat in the red plush chair.

"And, on a personal basis, let me know if you require any assistance renovating your space." Perhaps he could acquire the green army rug from the ordeal; Charlotte likely wouldn't mind. He thought his next comments out loud, a taboo in diplomatic circles. "With such short notice, we haven't had the opportunity to fetch you a proper gift. You've highlighted a need, so we can provide you with a more suitable present: classy, but emblematic of your new home." Nines had absolutely no taste, but Amber excelled at that sort of work. Doubtless the Happy Trails Caravan had something in its inventory. Amber would be ecstatic that she had license to splurge without restriction. And a pleased girlfriend had its benefits.

Floyd folded his hands together and kicked one leg atop the other. Barely acknowledging the weight of the encounter, he'd assembled some loose ideas while traversing his route, but he hadn't settled on a specific line. Still, the vague shape of conversation slowly manifested as he spoke. "The purpose of this engagement was largely introductory. You've recently arrived as an ambassador, and we wished to send our warmest welcome. I hope you understand. We're an emerging power, and it's better to grow with friendly neighbors than without.

"I represent an organization that reaches north to the Bishop area. We're a common trade hub." "Vault" had an extremely negative connotation in elite circles, so Floyd avoided such terminology. "If you'd like to set up a regional network, feel free to ask us. In the meantime, though, we ask that you refrain from sending a military presence north of the Tools Factory. Be advised that we will be engaging in construction projects, but there's no reason why they cannot be joint development. We can split costs and share benefits. The Mojave needs manufacturing; I'm sure you agree."

He relaxed in his seat. "As for yourself, does your administration have particular intentions? I'd like to relay them back to my superiors, and we can assist as needed."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Danny "Nines" Floyd: Northwest Passage, "Meld" Outward Base: Middle Afternoon, October 15th

Daniel knelt and sampled the soil beneath him. Wet yet coarse, it gave him the desire to wash immediately. It smelt burnt, but it wasn't radioactive. He rose. Dirt that was safe to touch was fit for plants. Past a mop of blonde strands, Floyd gazed up at a house a few minutes' walk from where he planted his feet. In the future, that structure would be completely blocked from view by the uncountable stalks of the settlement's first harvest. Whether he survived to see the dream come true, his imagination painted a vivid landscape around him. He felt at peace, at home, even if his birthplace was a week's travel away.

Settled with his survey, he picked up a backpack from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. He approached the entrance and knocked a pattern upon it, reminiscent of morse code. In seconds, the door opened, and a dark-haired woman filled the doorway. "Nines. You've returned earlier than expected."

"Trade was easy; salvage was easier." Danny passed her towards a kitchen space and unslung his pack onto a table. "To be fair, Charlotte, your requests weren't too cumbersome to obtain."

Charlotte followed him and unpacked his sack, sine asking permission. "Finally; a trowel!" she exclaimed. She held up the handheld metal tool. "I'm surprised how infrequently I find them. Weeding will become much simpler. The creeping Green had almost gotten the better of me." She stowed it in a drawer. "You could have accomplished more downtown."

"Then take the spare time now and reserve it for when I arrive late," Dan replied. "You're never this strict about my schedules. Something wrong?"
"Charlotte, I'm ready for-" A prematurely balding man turned the corner, pausing mid-sentence. "Nines! Why are you-"
"Bradley, just... save it for a later day," Charlotte sighed.
Bradley left the scene, muttering a lack of acceptance. "But we were going to-"
"Stow it," Charlotte resolved, reevaluating the precious loot from the bag. "These are candles. I'll put them aside for Amber. Do you remember her reason?"
"Happy Trails had a demand," Daniel explained. "They wouldn't part with their oil lamps otherwise."
"And what's our purpose for lanterns?"
"Gee, so our bedtime isn't sundown? So we can read and hobby with the civilized folk?"

Another rapping sounded. Floyd knew the sequence; he apparently wasn't the only adventurer who finished early. A slender female redhead walked in, and Floyd sauntered forth to greet her. "Amber! Welcome back!"

Amber threw her arms out wide and enveloped Danny in a warm embrace. "It's good to be where I belong again!"
Bradley reentered, musing at the couple. "We used to be like that, Charlotte."
Charlotte smiled at the memory. "Alright, since we're all present, I suppose we ought to report on our happenings."
Daniel began. "The whole town's riled up. The NCR's assembling a hasty squad and assigning them to the Mojave Checkpoint."
Everyone remained silent for a moment. Bradley piped up. "And you didn't consider that important enough to investigate? If it's not a border skirmish, it's likely a bigwig figure, I reckon."

Daniel guided the assembly to be seated. "I suspect it regards internal Republic business."
"Forgive me for speaking matters of state out of turn," Charlotte apologized, "but Henry Hinshaw, the Ace of Clubs, explicitly stated that our mission was-"
"To establish a network of contacts and cement our sovereignty in the region. I am well aware, Queen of Spades," Daniel interrupted. "I simply thought that a sloppy troop exercise wasn't worth my paranoia." He emptied the rest of his bag's contents. "Nonetheless, if you three would appreciate our representation at this Californian event, I have nothing else to do with my night. I'll stock up for a journey." He stood up. "I will be taking Bradley's hunting rifle, though. It has a nicer scope than my lever action."
Bradley nodded. "My service for Vault 48."

Amber rose to meet him. "Be careful out there, okay? For me."
Daniel ran a hand through her bobbed hair. "I don't care if you're the Nine of Hearts; you'll always be my queen."
"And you're my king, honey!" Amber assured.
"Break it up, lovebirds," Bradley announced, fetching his firearm and tossing it to Floyd. "Be certain to inform us in the morning."

New Vegas Strip: Evening, October 15th

Danny rerouted to ensure that he received whatever VIP the west decided to throw at him. He still considered this duty pointless, but he at least appreciated a proper neighborhood stroll.

Of course, the gunshot forced him to recalculate.

Danny readied his gun and breathed deeply. Regardless of the magnitude of this encounter, there lay some opportunity... and potential death. He jogged forward down the streets to the source of the noise: a caravan on horseback, escorted by a miniature army. This was far above his pay grade. He pointed his hands and rifle skyward, announcing his presence to the convoy.

"Don't shoot; I bear tidings of goodwill!" If they continued without him, he'd attempt to match their pace, futile as his efforts might be. If not, he'd relax and approach them diplomatically. He silently wished he'd brought backup, heck, the whole gang. "Daniel Floyd, regional commander and envoy of the Pinochle Expedition. Pleased to make your acquaintance. With whom do I speak?"

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

The Leopard which carried Hamazasp was typical of Rasalhague's present catalogue: old, musty, discourteous, but functional. The metal frame's rickety movement didn't ease him, but this would be far from the first or the most dangerous deadly experience he faced in his lifetime. He savored the thrill of being lurched upward, then forward. He quite relished this rarity.

Once the transport was well underway, he opened his backpack and parsed its contents. The fifteen books he brought were accounted for. As expected, a few straggler ants crawled across their spines: residue from his evening of sleep beside the queen. He contemplated cracking open a novel, but he didn't wish to accidentally crush an unsuspecting insect. On the other hand, he couldn't exactly unbuckle his seatbelt and freely roam the cabin. She wouldn't mind, would she? He sighed. Without adequate food or oxygen, their lives were forfeit anyways. He quietly mourned their loss, then pulled out a fresh copy of Dateline Destiny: Strange Tales But True by Adam Rasalhague, a book he'd picked up from a gift shop just before departure. He'd considered The Philosopher And The Space Traveler by General Yuri Gamato, but his new employer's cultural heirloom felt more appropriate. Of course, the slow reader he was, he'd barely finished the third chapter when he reached his destination.

The vessel was ancient, centuries older even than the original manuscripts of (the majority of) his novels. Braving a potential slew of long dormant diseases, he brushed his fingers against the wall's rusty frames as he strolled through them. Not much survives from yesteryear; what remains ought to be prized, no matter its condition. Perhaps he'd spend some time polishing its sides in periods of pause. Regardless, he needed to stake a bunk. He wandered his way to quarters, selected the bottommost bed, and set down his current read to claim it. An ant obliviously traversed the cover. That duty complete, he slung his pack over his shoulder and headed for the briefing.

The plasteel seat was unruly but serviceable. Hamazasp had employed worse, including (shudder gasp) regular plastic chairs. Still, he figured he should requisition a pillow for his 'Mech to maintain this posture on this material for hours if not days. He positioned himself near the room's rear if only so that his comrades could take the front and pay better attention. Alas, he miscalculated the edge lords and lone rangers lonelier individuals coveting the distant seats in the corner, crowding Sulser beyond comfort.

He studied his superior, then his colleagues. Lichen was good for natural dyes, especially since they required no urine mordant to fuse to cloth; he dabbled with it while experimenting on his farm. He hoped to obtain a sample, though he wouldn't leave his cockpit except under utmost necessity. Mäkinen's cynicism was unwarranted but tolerable. His peers, however... "Babysit captives," "Ex-Mistress," alongside the tone: not signs of proper integration. Hopefully team cohesion remained intact. He supposed he shouldn't overly rely on them; emotional compromise was a liability.

He waited for a second, then arose. "Black ops? A particularly tough Lance simply means higher quality loot upon survival, I reckon." Pessimism was best countered with optimism. "For either ourselves or Republic stock. I myself have a question, Sir Commander. I presume that the landscape is fairly flat, with nuclear bombings and all. Nonetheless, are there local terrain elements to denote?" He wasn't one for intense maneuvers, and he preferred to keep it that way. He implied but didn't outright state his curiosity about the mercenaries' cut of weapons and parts out of his strict sense of professionalism.