Smike

Spearhead: A modern/near future Special Forces RP (Closed to new applications)

I’m here and gonna start working on a sheet tmw. Planning on going either Marksman or Point Man for the primary role and Human Intelligence for the secondary

Shattered Steel - An Ace Combat/Project Wingman/etc inspired aircraft-based RP

March 13th, 2014
Luqa, Malta, the Mediterranean

He just never shut up about the Russians did he? Out of five conversations Mykhalio had while Fuka had been listening, two had brought up Russia. Fuka could understand defending one's borders, but the Great Bear was far from the juggernaut that had spearheaded an invasion of the supposed 'graveyard of empires.' Wunderkind's fear struck the more measured pilot as simple paranoia, and his supposed patriotism smacked of performance to her partisan sensibilities. If things were indeed so bleak, the proverbial Huns breathing down the collective necks of this poor Eastern European Milan, why was he far afield with Shattered Steel instead of flying for his own country? Pilots were investments just the same as their planes, trained to the tune of millions of dollars and hundreds of hours across simulators and actual in-air time. Surely Myk, the good Cossack he was, would be be in an airbase back home waiting for the call to cockpit?

Nope. He was a mercenary like Fuka, sent here and there to squash problems unrelated to his nation's own, real or imagined. He was like many "patriots," happy to talk about duty but going off to do anything but that. As far as Fuka could tell, Myk was a decent kid but he ran his mouth a lot and was overwhelmingly naive, and that was all it took for her to write him off in the moment. It was mean-spirited of her, but Shattered didn't pay her to think pleasant thoughts or babysit boys not even out of college.

She sipped her soda as Scott explained the situation in more detail, glad that it wasn't a total clusterfuck. Whatever they were dealing with sounded too heavy-duty to be crushed by one strike mission, but a few thousand pounds of ordnance dropped on their surplus-helmeted heads would rattle them and hopefully take out their heaviest equipment. If not, then Shattered would repeat the operation and Peacenik would get to do what she did best.

"Understood."

Clown being out of action for the minute was concerning, but it also presented an opportunity. Less wings meant more weight for each pair to pull, and more opportunities to get into a fight instead of just being the eyes in the sky. Carbon fiber fingers drummed against Fuka's leg in silent recognition of the nicotine craving still plaguing her, the need to get up and do something steadily building.

Hell, withdrawal probably wasn't helping her give Mykhalio any leeway. She had woken up pissed and queasy, a telltale sign that she needed a smoke. Talking to her sister had offset any healing powers fresh air might have had, and now she was sitting there grumpy and growling.

In times like these, her subconscious reminded her that there was no one to stop her from grabbing a pack from the PX except for herself.

SPEARHEAD - A military, special forces RP in the almost modern-day

Hi hello it me

Smike's Sheets

Huang Redacted

Name: Born Ximena Huang, [REDACTED]
Callsign/Nickname: [REDACTED] Jefe, a play on how her name is pronounced.
Age: 41, born 1974
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Nationality: Sinomexicana by birth, functionally stateless.

Personality: Ximena's overarching demeanor is one of excess. She appreciates indulgences of all sorts, known for her love of cigars, coffee, and cognac. Thus far she's managed to avoid any major health concerns resulting from such consumption, something she attributes to a family history of smoking and drinking. She's a flirt and womanizer, prone to casual relationships or simple flings, as well as a high-rolling gambler. Much of her paychecks go to feeding the above habits, with some carefully squirreled away. Suave and confident in all things, she is self-assured, bordering on cocky, but genuinely quite competent and very aware of it. She expects perfection from herself in her work, and she often achieves it. This in turn inflates her ego.

[REDACTED]

While there is little doubt that Jefe is an ego-driven perfectionist with a number of vices, psychoanalysis suggests that this is a subconscious defense mechanism. [REDACTED] paranoid, and her anxiety is amplified due to her current status as a wanted traitor to the PRC and [REDACTED]. It is believed that [REDACTED], she's able to avoid confronting the simple fact that she's afraid.

Despite fleeing her home country, Huang is politically and emotionally loyal to China and its interests. She grew up in the late Cold War and came to disdain both the Soviet hegemony and NATO influence, seeing Russia and America as twin imperialists attempting to make the Third World their own. If she had her way, New China and the NCAA would break apart the N/UN and the megacorporations alike. That said, she is considered to be a reliable asset. Her self-preservation outweighs her political ideals, and she know that there is no reward for her if she were to try and defect again. She is stuck with Shattered Steel.

[REDACTED]

History: Ximena Huang was born in 1971 in Mexico City, during the height of the Sino-Soviet split. Her father was Chen Huang, an economist and businessman attached to the Chinese embassy to study Mexican trade and industry as part of early economic reforms predating the wider opening up. Her mother, Renata Torres was a local college student working in the embassy as an attache. Despite the difference in age (Renata was 25 at the time while Chen was approximately 45) the pair began a romantic relationship and quickly eloped, potentially due to Renata becoming pregnant.

The family moved back to China while Ximena was a toddler but she would end up splitting her time between there and Mexico, due to her father's work and the presence of family. She grew up intensely patriotic and very Third World, seeing Chinese opposition to both the Soviets and the Americans as an attitude other nonaligned nations should copy. With the implementation of Dengist reforms came an increase in the private sector of the Chinese economy, and Chen, with his business background and overseas contacts, was well-placed to benefit. Dealing mainly in real estate and stocks, he taught his daughter that the only way to survive and thrive was to be adaptable, getting onto and bailing from trends before anyone else. Ximena took to this lesson, and it likely impacted her outlook on life.

Despite her intense patriotism Huang was something of a problem child. Despite her intelligence she did merely okay in school and had a record of disciplinary issues, mainly disorderly conduct and underage drinking. Records suggest that she was suspected of affiliating with minor street gangs, but it appears as if she was never formally charged with such. Her father kept her out of any serious trouble, and despite her mediocre grades, she got into university, where she began to shine.

Ximena studied both in-country at Peking University, with an emphasis on finance and economics, as well as overseas at the National Autonomous University of Mexico where she was educated in Latin American studies. Her master's thesis was on the interplay of Chinese and LatAm economies and was well-received enough that an excerpt was published in the Journal of Latin American Studies. After graduating she went to work for her father, serving as his representative in Mexico and the southwestern United States.

With the advent of the Heavenfall and the destruction of the old way of doing things, China expands its espionage and counterintelligence activities greatly. The Ministry of State Security was given an increased budget and a free hand to organize itself as required, and its International Intelligence Burea, in particular, expanded and reorganized itself to face new challenges. The "Second Burea" began to recruit unorthodox agents with valuable skill sets, and Ximena was headhunted shortly after the impact. She was an analyst scrutinizing the activities of foreign companies for any impropriety, passing along her observations to investigators.

[REDACTED]

She instead sought out alternate opportunities to serve her country. At the time the MSS was collaborating with military intelligence to create a PMC for deniable operations, allowing the projection of force without risking open warfare. This PMC, Lucky Dog Defense, is ostensibly a publicly traded company taking on jobs for a variety of parties, but it was very much an arm of the Chinese state.

Similar to Shattered Steel in scope, Lucky Dog had an eclectic mix of personnel and equipment from different countries and eras, combining its varied inventory to perform operations on land, air, and sea. Ximena pushed to become a fighter pilot, a departure from her previous role. She managed to convince her superiors to allow the transfer [REDACTED]. That and her tendency to play fast and loose in office politics made someone above her happy to make her someone else’s problem.

She transferred out of her analyst role to Lucky Dog's fighter wing, doing well in training and given the opportunity to serve as a fighter pilot. Lucky Dog had bases around the world, but much of its manpower was fleet-based, giving it a reason to invest in carrier-born craft. That explains why they had access to the Navy Advanced Tactical Fighter (better known as the F22 'Sea Raptor') but now how. The best guess is that in the aftermath of the Heavenfall, rogue naval officers sold off their stocks to the highest bidder, but it's unclear. Regardless, Huang ended up flying a purpose-built air supremacy craft and found she had both the talent and inclination for dogfighting.

[REDACTED]

Three years into Ximena's time [REDACTED] she moved what cash she could to offshore accounts and dropped everything, including Zuhal. The week after the conversation she reported to work as usual and requested time in-air for maneuver training. Once airborne she simply veered off, using the Raptor's high speed and stealth capabilities to flee.

She defected to Shattered Steel after three years in Lucky Dog, and after the mandatory debriefing and background checks to ensure she wasn't a double agent, allowed to keep flying the same plane she stole.

Personal Gear:

• MGA SAW K in .300 Blackout, with attached laser, flashlight and suppressor. [REDACTED]
• Smith and Wesson Model 629 in .44 Magnum snubnosed, capable of being concealed in a specially enlarged jacket pocket. [REDACTED]
• Buck 102 Hunting Knife
• Ximena is a heavy drinker and smoker and so keeps a stash in her personal locker, both her preferred cognac and cigars, as well as cheap rotgut and cigarettes. Dice and cards are stored in the same place, if not on her person.

Personal Aircraft: Lockheed Martin F-22N "Sea Raptor"- Carrier-capable variant of the F-22 Raptor, largely the same as its progenitor save for the addition of variable-sweep wings and strengthened landing gear.



Aircraft modifications: A short, bulleted list of what has been altered or modified on your characters' plane

• Ukrainian-style sky camoflage
• Depiction of La Calavera Catrina alongside the nose.
• Modifications to the payload system allow the Raptor to equip a variety of Chinese and Soviet ordnance in addition to the standard N/UN munitions.
• Scorpion Helmet Mounted Display
• Updatedd avionics
• Upgraded Radar: AN/APG-81
• AN/AAQ-37 Distributed Aperture System

Anything Else: Completely optional, but if there's any other information you deem relevant to your character or wish to include, such as a particular song, quotes, additional art, or so on; please feel free to add it under the relevant headings.

Shattered Steel - An Ace Combat/Project Wingman/etc inspired aircraft-based RP

March 13th, 2014
Luqa, Malta, the Mediterranean

She would do anything for her family, and as far as requests went, checking in every now and again was pretty doable. International calls weren't cheap, but it wasn't like Fuka did very much with her paychecks anyway. No, what made her hesitate was not money but pride. Every time she got in contact with her relatives the same infernal question would be asked, a landmine nestled beneath the peaceful path of conversation. And what made it particularly annoying was that they never meant to needle her, they simply did not know how much their inquiry offended her. Fuka had often thought about explaining herself but could never muster up the courage, resigned to bearing her weight in silence.

It was early as all hell in Malta, the sun just beginning its ascent over the little republic, but in Japan the day was well underway. Thus Fuka could ring up her sister without guilt, leaning up against an old church dedicated to a saint whose name she could not read. The signage was faded to the point of near illegibility, the provenance of the place known to the locals and uncared for by anyone else. Fuka's run had taken her to the town of Luqa, a scant half-hour away from the airport but seemingly transported from another time. Densely packed with buildings constructed by the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those living in them, it was archetypally European in that way. So much history and yet so abandoned by modernity, a pocket dimension where people still lived in villages and relied on the tolling of church bells to mark time.

She was out of place in her running shoes and tracksuit, and the mechanical limb holding a high-grade satphone to her ear may as well have been artifacts from aliens.

The phone rang only once before someone picked up, a familiar voice filling her. It was Japan's Minister of Defense and the right-hand woman of the Prime Minister, the second most prominent voice in the JDSF and thus one of the most powerful people in the Pacific. Yōko was a born and bred war hawk, her long and successful career built off the back of military service and a vocal interest in making Japan not just a power player but the ultimate force in its sphere of influence. She was cunning, crafty, and at times domineering-, but Fuka still remembered her as the awkward teen she had watched grapple with high school romances and nightly curfews.

"Fuka! It's been a while."

"Yeah, I guess so. I didn't want to bother you; I know you've been busy."

"Not too busy for a phone call, or just a text."

Yōko laughed lightly as she said it, but her politician's mask didn't hold up under familial scrutiny. The lack of contact hurt her and Fuka didn't know how to apologize for it or even explain herself. So she didn't bother, the sisters letting the moment pass in favor of other topics.

"I got a call from another contractor, this one claimed they can deliver rifle optics for twenty percent less than what you pay now."

"Mhm. Sounds great...if I could believe it."

"I told them you'd say that, but they wanted me to come out to their factory and get the grand tour, see the setup so I could relay the good word."

"And how'd that go?"

"It didn't. I told them you had a secretary and it's not me."

More laughter from a hemisphere away, and this time it was genuine.

"Keep fielding calls for me and we might have to make it official."

At this point they might as well have. All sorts of suit-wearing strangers kept seeking Fuka out, ranging from slick Madison Avenue types representing this or that weapons firm to sweaty-faced, shabby-suited engineers looking for a trial run of their newest gadget. When every single member of your immediate family held influence in military or political affairs, plenty of suitors sought favors and friendship. Put in a good word for us with your father, ask your sister if she could listen to a proposal, hey doesn't your brother know people in the Ordinance Department, do you think you could drop our name to them?

No one ever wanted to talk to Fuka because of what Fuka did. She didn't get callers who wanted to grill her on her career path, no one ever sent emails inquiring if they could ask about the amazing journey from elite soldier to fighter pilot. Nope, she was just a stepping stone to the more important Astor-Nakanos. It was funny and irritating in equal measure, her wounded warrior status getting plenty of cred in bars and on dating apps but no love in the world her family occupied.

"But really," Yōko said dismissively, her shrug almost audible. "I'm not sure why they'd want to talk to me. The administration's hardly been the most interested in expanding our arsenal."

"Yeah, and everyone knows that won't be the case if you and Chieko get your way. They're saying you're looking at the PM position yourself."

"Oh my, I didn't realize I was speaking to the kingmaker. Tell me, Miss Backroom Dealer, who's saying that?"

Fuka snorted, watching an Egyptian goose hunt for crumbs on the church lawn.

"Mama and Papa, for starters. Your partner-in-crime Chieko for another, every pundit that mentions your name these days, and also anyone paying any fucking attention at all."

"...maybe I'm considering it."

Oh she was considering it alright, like the rooster considered whether or not to crow at the sun. Her boss was well-liked but considered to be too high-strung to keep the job for much longer, an assessment he seemed to agree with if the rumors were true. If he stepped down it was all but guaranteed that Yōko would be going to every Diet member she could reach to cajole them into giving her the okay, all while Chieko beat the war drums and Ayako would be off to the side in Arizona, waving a banner in support.

The question was whether Japan was ready for them.

"I guess you're going to have to campaign on a military platform, at this point no one would believe you if you said anything else was your main focus. That and the birthrate I suppose."

"Guilty as charged." the presumptive PM said, the pop of a beer top telling Fuka that her sister had gotten out of work for the day. "People know me and my credentials, and they know what I stand for."

An old-school warlord in the modern fashion, interested in strengthing Japan's position and undercutting anything that would threaten it. That's what Yōko was, and she was more popular now than she would have been twenty years ago.

"I mean, your odds are probably pretty good. You're not a shoe-in or anything, don't get a big head, but people like that kind of talk now. Fuck China, fuck their cronies; the Soviet Union doesn't exist anymore so maybe we can be friends with Russia so we have an ally that isn't a million miles away, expand the JSDF and put it to use offensively; it's a new age now."

"That's what I told Mama yesterday, but she's more conservative in her outlook. Hell, she was saying I'd be dead in the water because of the-"

"-nuke question, yeah. I mean, she's not entirely wrong is she? Asking Japan to jump into the proliferation pool seems a bit like asking an arson victim to buy lots of gasoline."

"It's more like asking someone who's been mugged to take up self-defense courses."

Yōko cut her off with an intensity that was uncharacteristic of her in private conversation but very reminiscent of when she held a press conference or stood at the podium. There was a dangerous sort of enthusiasm in her voice, a kind of controlled mania wherein she could acknowledge that someone disagreed with her but was sure she could make them see reason.

"Mama's from an older generation. Her brother was conscripted to fight in Manchuria, and she had a pen pal whose dad helped rebuild Hiroshima. In her time, the bomb was a no-go, totally verboten. But I don't know if you remember, a decade ago the sky fell on us and shattered everything. It's like you said, we're in a new age. People want security, and right now? We're not secure. The N/UN is a stopgap, and we need to be fearsome in our own right. We shouldn't have to ask for help from the Americans to deal with enemy planes poking at our airspace."

"Fuck me then, I guess." Fuka muttered, Yōko blithely ignoring the comment.

"-the enemy should be terrified of even accidentally crossing us. The people want security, and they want respect. This is how we get it."

Fuka pinched the phone between her head and shoulder, holding her hands up to the receiver so it could pick up a sarcastic round of applause.

"Is that the speech you'll give when you announce your candidacy? You practice it in the shower?"

"Ha ha, very droll. What about you? You have anything exciting in your life right now?"

There it was, the damnable question. Her parents and siblings, full or half-blooded, all asked her in various wordings and tones but it meant the same thing every time: Are you still pretending to be an action figure, or do you plan on settling down and stepping up in the world?

"I'm still flying planes. Now I just do it for a mercenary outfit."

"Right, Evan mentioned that. How's that compare to military life?"

"The pay is better, the gear is a mixed bag, the coworkers are a mix of laidback, greedy, and bloodthirsty. But overall, it's a lot of the same."

"Well, at least you adjusted easily."

"I guess I did."

"You deployed anywhere interesting?"

"I can't give you a location, obviously, but as far as deployment zones go this sure beats Juarez. It's a vacation spot usually."

"Lucky you!"

Lucky her indeed. Fuka eyed the early morning sun to estimate how much time she had before needing to leave, and mercifully it was almost none. If she hung up now she could make it back to the barracks with enough time to shower and grab breakfast before the meeting.

"Alright, I need to head out. Enjoy your evening."

"You too, and stay safe."
—----
Malta Defence Forces HQ
Luqa International Airport
Malta, The Mediterranean

Fuka sipped her soda as Scott gave the run-down, finding the situation about as bad as she had expected. Malta's defense forces remained a joke in the wake of the Heavenstrike, a few ragtag ceremonial troops with outdated weapons and absolutely no artillery or aircraft worth speaking of. The closest thing to a real country was fifty miles away by water, and it was too busy dealing with its own concerns to have a fulltime contigent guarding the archipelago. That meant that the ragtag pirates or terrorists or whatever they were had free reign save for Shattered Steel, mercenaries and renegades duking it out with the fate of the islands hanging in the balance.

It was a bad time to be Maltese, but people usually didn't hire mercenaries when things were going well.

Peacenik visibly slumped in her seat when Scott gave the bad news, rather dissapointed that she was going to be on babysitting duty while the others got to have fun. Shooting in self-defense and at high value targets marked out for her was fine, but if most of the flight was going to be recon she was going to be very bored. There was nothing she could do about it except hope that the mysterious bad guys were feeling ornery by the time she made it to them.

She noted Sokolov's entrance of empathy, glad to see that she wasn't the only one who showed up to the squad late for a briefing. Another Slavic on the team, and hopefully not a Russian. Myk was liable to do or say something stupid if so.

"Heartbreak, question: How long have the Italians known about this? It seems hard to believe that'd they just miss some airports and harbors being taken over, unless there was literally no contact between them and the mainland."

Dark Space - A Mecha-Focused Space Opera RP (RP Suspended)

HB-202
Hoyland Station

HB stood near the growing group (presumably their new comrades) but not in it, snippets of conversation noticed but not interacted with, distant squalls unrelated to the raging storm. They knew that this would have been a good time to start noting names and putting them to faces but did not do so, indulging in the frenetic rush of anxiety instead of the clinician approach Zealots were trained to approach missions with.

Lorei wasn't there. The Synth whose siren song in the form of a silent plea for space had dragged HB out of the criminal underworld and into the light was nowhere to be found. Why? Where was she? She was supposed to be in this unit, HB had only put their name on the transfer list after triple-checking it for hers. Had she backed out, or been reassigned? Had there been some accident, a collapsed engine or a bulkhead breach perhaps? It was possible that Lorei was no more, her already shattered mind erased from existence by laser fire or unfortunate disaster. It was unlikely, but it was possible. Oh so very possible.

Their mind seized upon their increased heart rate and morphed it, the drugs in their system instructing the body to take this negative feel and make something addictive out of it. The spike in adrenaline was as intoxicating as any hallucinogen, HB riding a wave of nervous energy that crested just as the VF's canopy opened.

HB saw her and stiffened, every muscle fiber tensing as if struck by lightning.

Her.

her-her-her-her-her-her-

It took everything they had to not sprint straight for the Beloved Synth, and it was a strain that could not have lasted. Each step Lorei took brought HB closer to giving in, to bound forth with a million questions and hoist her into a hug so tight it would dent her plating. Had the man in charge not shown up, they probably would've.

As it was they instead snapped towards the approaching Cerasian, but not before giving Lorei the briefest glance. Their eyes, a deep red and seemingly pupilless, crinkled as their lips curled into the ghost of a smile, HB trying to convey every emotion but only really showing one:

Relief.

Shattered Steel - An Ace Combat/Project Wingman/etc inspired aircraft-based RP

March 12th, 2014
Women's Barracks, Shattered Steel HQ
Malta, The Mediterranean

Fuka had no idea what to think about Myk, the too-young and too-emotional little guy with the Russia-sized chip on his shoulder. The consideration of her spirit animal was interrupted by the sound of sobbing over the comms, the veteran unused to overt displays of emotion in the field and now very sure that she didn't like them.

So she shut her mouth for the moment and listened to the others jabber, watching Circus show off and pondering a question that seemed symbolic of her new career:

What kind of outfit is this?

She found normalcy in Malta for a moment, setting down her gear and grabbing a bunk like she had done so many times in so many bases. There had been a time in her life when she would get homesick, but that was long gone. Nowadays she felt weird if she stayed in one bed for too long! Always on the go, always on the move, flying her to do something for Shattered Steel and then flying back to the States to talk to the docs about her arm, back to Shattered Steel and then every once in a while onwards to Arizona or Japan to visit some relative or another.

The sense of not owning your living space became normal, and Fuka had grown accustomed to the sterile nature of barracks life.

Now that it was after hours she had changed from her work gear to sweatpants and an undershirt, lying in her bunk with her datapad charging nearby. She had just fallen into a catnap after skimming personnel files when emotion again invaded her sanctuary, the Valkyrie storming in like a typhoon crashing against the coast.

The crash of a fist against metal shattered Fuka's light doze, training and experience shaking her from Rest into Fight. She was reaching for her pistol before she was even really awake, and it was only once she registered Freyja as the intruder that she let it remain in her bag.

"Goddamn girl, are you okay?"

Fuka wasn't the only one disturbed; the other Steel women in the bunkhouse had heard and seen the commotion. Questions bubbled up in a variety of languages, and to top it off Wunderkind had to start spouting off at the door:

You're not allowed to get yourself bent out of shape till you save more lives than you've killed

So that was what this was about. Christ.

"Valk take a breath, please." She pleaded, padding for the door. "The rest of you mind your business."

And for the visitor at the door-

"Mykhailo, thanks for bringing food. Maybe don't announce people's business at the threshold like you're our town crier?"

Her voice was a low hiss so that only he could hear, her flesh and blood hand gesturing for the tray.

"And next time you need to get something over to this side, ask someone to take it. Do me a favor and don't show up to the women's barracks unannounced."

You met a lot of unrepentant horndogs in the military; it came with being surrounded by people barely in their twenties. Myk was very quickly exhausting her patience. Hitting on her in their first meeting was funny. Trying his luck with Freyja on the flight was immature. Taking it upon himself to bring Freyja her dinner while she just so happened to be in the women's quarters?

Tone deaf, perverted, take your pick.

Dark Space - A Mecha-Focused Space Opera RP (RP Suspended)

HB-202
Hoyland Station

The Gehenna was sturdy, dependable, dangerous and, to the enemy, terrifying. What it was not was maneuverable. It had been built to travel at a slow and steady pace devoid of deviation; it was not a scout but a long-range sniper. It would deploy to a good position and sit there plinking away at anything unfortunate enough to be in range, dealing destruction from miles out so that its victims didn't get a chance to respond. This was its mantra, its ethos, its entire purpose, the thing it had been built from the ground up to do. When the UEC's death-designers had put their heads together and gave birth to what would be the Gehenna they had neglected to consider that in only a few years there would be mechs that were not just capable of being fast but could transform to achieve flight. Thus they had packed on as much extra armor and additional power sources as they could, and HB was resigned to having to hitch a ride every time deployment orders came through.

That was how it had always been, and they were content with it anyway. It wasn't like they had many places to go. HB followed the work, hopping from station to station and system to system under the orders of the Confederation. As far as the higher-ups were concerned, the Gehenna and its pilot were just more cargo to sling onto one of the many freighters typing their domain together.

They were aware of the approaching space station but did not remark on it, letting the automated docking instructions echoing through the ship fade into the background of their mind. The hallucinogens in their system, the Stepping Stones, as their fellow Zealots referred to them, turned the mechanical voice into a steady drone. In that meditative state, they could look inward, turning their gaze away from the infinite space outside their window to the one in their mind.

They could not reach the Ideal Conscious, not in this state. Instead of a flat plane their thoughts were a churning sea, roiling and crashing in a storm of uncertainties. HB knew that the Beloved Synth would be there, that was the whole reason behind their request for a transfer. This knowledge registered as satisfaction, excitement, even joy, but beneath the foamy surface of those positive emotions lay currents of disquiet. Nervousness was to be expected after such a long separation, but it was curdling into anxiety and fear.

With the detached air of a scientist inspecting a failed experiment, HB observed their arm, noting how it trembled. Adrenaline was running through them, fight-or-flight instincts from a long-gone primal era. Their self-control was broken for the time being; they could not quell themselves.

What an odd state of being! They could identify the responses their body was going through, but their mind, the arbiter of their reality, was unable to rein them in. This was a failure on HB's part. They had been trained to rise past their emotions, but the lapse was understandable. Seeing a loved one for the first time in twenty years would have an effect on anyone.

Even someone as jaded as they.

The transport made contact with the hangar, the gentle bump as it activated its landing struts reaching through the storm clouds to shake HB to action. A door opened somewhere in the distance, a ramp descended, and HB went to leave. She could feel the spray of nonexistent saltwater as she walked, hear the rush of a wind that blew only for her. There were figures in the distance, indistinct even as though HB could see the most minute of their features.

HB could not make out their faces but even if they could it wouldn't have mattered. None of them were Lorei.

The waves kept crashing, threatening to capsize the Zealot and drown them inside their own head.

Dark Space - A Mecha-Focused Space Opera RP (RP Suspended)

HB-202

Name: HB-202RC ('Horned Bastard, 202nd Zealot of the Ravenous Cohort')
Age: 322
Sex: Biologically female
Species: Mon'nnari
Appearance: HB stands taller than the average human male at six feet, not counting their horns, and carries themselves with a warrior's grace. They tend to dress simply and practically, leaning towards cheap and replaceable clothes when at rest and sturdy combat gear when in the field. However, HB does indulge in jewelry. They've decorated their face and horns with several bangles and studs, the flashy adornments a holdover from their criminal career.

If one happened upon HB in a state of undress they'd noticed a number of old surgical scars and sealed ports, relics from their days as a soldier for the Hegemony. Their original cybernetic augments were bulky and obtrusive but as the years went on they've been replaced with more advanced and discrete ones. That said, they are very clearly augmented. While not a full-conversion borg HB is cybered to a very high degree, with seams on their limbs and torso denoting implanted weapons and subdermal armor.

As a side note, instead of the usual red HB bleeds a pale, milky blue. Their blood was replaced with an artificial variant that better regulates temperature and insulates their various augmentations from electromagnetism.

HB

Personality: HB is, at first glance, spacey and out of touch. They never quite learned how to interface normally with society, often coming across as distant or perhaps not entirely there. They have a tendency to look through people rather than at them during a conversation, sizing up someone with all the cold clinicality of a machine crunching numbers. This ruthless calculation is at odds with their sleepy-eyed and dazed expression, a side effect of the drugs running through their system.

Part of HB's faith involves the use of psychoactive substances to achieve the Ideal Conscious, a state of loose calm characterized by meditative introspection and mild hallucination. Words are distorted and images are altered, giving them the sensation of being in a permanent dream. This makes holding a conversation with them an amusing or annoying experience, depending on one's preference. But by using a neural implant hooked into their serotonin receptors they can flush their system of the narcotics, forcing themselves sober. This is an unpleasant experience and makes HB rather taciturn, but they only use it when combat is imminent.

History: The child that would eventually be known as HB-202 was born generations after the Mon'nnari were annexed by the Hegemony, and there was no question about its fate. They were born a Zealot, a religious order of elite warriors and assassins who saw warfare and sabotage as devotional actions. The Zealots believed that they were not free spirits but pieces in a puzzle or cogs in a machine, individual parts that had to work for the good of the whole. As such, it would be inaccurate to say that the child had a family. They knew who their relatives were, but their parents had been assigned to each other by their superiors for the sake of producing future fighters, and their siblings were kept faceless, the same as all the other children in their sept. They ate in the same dining hall and slept in the same barracks but were taught to bond with each other as comrades and nothing more.

The child trained dutifully and was made a full Zealot upon reaching adulthood, replacing a fallen soldier. They were not given a numerical designation but inherited one, becoming the new 202nd of the Ravenous Cohort and then swiftly deployed against the Hegemony's enemies. Zealots were prized for their use as raiders and ambushers, slinking into enemy territory to disrupt supply lines and force troops away from the front lines. At first 202 took action against pirates and dissidents on the fringes of Hegemony territory but with the arrival of the Confederation they were given a proper war to fight.

They served admirably, working with a small ship-based team to harry the intruding forces. Despite the facelessness of the Zealots they were given notable autonomy in the field, often directed towards a region of space and told to make trouble however they saw fit. 202 destroyed ammo depots, contaminated medical supplies, assassinated political and military leaders, and sabotaged refueling stations so that they would explode when docked with anything to hurt the Confederation and force them to stretch themselves thin. They took pride in their work, as by the tenets of their faith every legitimate target destroyed was a positive step on their journey to martial enlightenment. This had been the way of the Zealots before they had served the Hegemony, and their beliefs were tolerated as they produced skilled and devoted agents who did a tremendous amount of damage for their small numbers. But the Hegemony did not allow for deviation from their vision, and the new realities of war brought mandated change.

The Zealots were retrained as mech pilots and the parameters of their missions altered. Now they were less scalpels and more knives, leaving long slashing wounds in the enemy's territory. During the Second Confederation War the Zealots were directed towards vulnerable civilian targets as well as military ones, displacing populations and destroying food supplies to force the Confederation to deal with defenseless people. 202 did as instructed, taking the initiative and earning a reputation for damaging power plants and water storage units, but they were disquieted by this new method of warfare.

By the third war the mandate had changed yet again, and the Ravenous Cohort lived up to its name. 202 and their comrades now served a purely destructive role, practicing a sort of proactive scorched earth where they simply rampaged across a region to do as much damage as possible and stymie attempts to rebuild. 202 shelled cities and herded civilians out of their homes and into the wilderness as commanded, but they did it without enthusiasm. The Hegemony had morphed the Zealots into something far removed from their original purpose, and 202, feeling abandoned, abandoned it in turn. The end of the war saw them stuck far behind Confederate lines and they didn't bother escaping back to friendly territory.

Now in the boundary between the Halo and the Frontier of Confederation space 202 found themselves in the Antarus System, a cluster of small moons and planets known for two things: mining operations, and vice of all sorts. While their medical training and knowledge on augmentation could have gotten them steady work as a doctor 202 still craved the comradery and sense of unity that came with fighting for a larger group, and their military-grade cybernetics and martial skill made them valuable for anyone looking for a fight. They fell in with the Rock Rats, a collection of toughs dealing in black market ore and stolen goods. 202 quickly earned a reputation for brawling, taking part in turf wars with their gangster brethren. Being one of the few, if not only Mon'nnari in the system they were dubbed the Horned Bastard, a moniker they adopted to replace their now abandoned Hegemony name.

After a few years of tangling with street thugs and pirates HB attracted the attention of bigger players. The Rock Rats were subordinate to the Spacers Syndicate, a truly intergalactic network spanning the Confederation and the ISA. Always on the hunt for talent, HB-202's loyalty and ruthlessness was smiled upon, and they were granted a spot in the Spacers' ranks. They were again enjoying themselves as the people they fought were rivals or debtors, folks who should have known better than to have involved themselves. But as they moved up the ranks, they became responsible for more rackets, and the wider their reach, the less they could narrow their sights. Once again HB found themselves picking on civilians, bullying dockyard workers and bureaucrats into silence. Their conscious picked at them, and HB began wondering if they should make another career change.

Roughly three decades into their tenure with the Syndicate HB met a young Synth on shore leave from the Confederation ship she was stationed on. Lorei was intriguing in many ways to the assassin-turned-mobster; her existence as an artificial being with free will was a fascinating prospect to someone who had spent their whole life seconding their autonomy to a greater whole. In fact, Lorei in general intrigued HB. As they spent time together 202 grew to appreciate her openness, her willingness to indulge in order to learn, her ability to be cocky without being offputting. For the first time in HB's life, they felt not a vague loyalty to fellow cogs in some larger machine but mutual affection on an individual level.

A romance blossomed and promised to grow into something wonderful, but reality had a way of intruding. The Shodane War saw HB's Beloved Synth pulled away to fight and then subjected to torture that could only be suffered by an artificial mind. When the pair reunited it was a one-sided affair. Lorei could bring up snippets of conversations they had or remember HB's favorite drink, but their entire relationship was twisted and warped so as to be almost completely nonexistent. HB was no stranger to altering their consciousness and emptying their mind, but such a brutal scrubbing of their Beloved Synth horrified them. They desperately tried to patch things up in any way they could, but Lorei, ashamed by her inability to connect her fragmented memories to emotions she knew she was supposed to feel, ran away.

HB had been planning on leaving their criminal life but now had no reason to do so, languidly going through the motions of underworld politics for another twenty years. Without Lorei around they saw no purpose in change, but chance would eventually give them a reason to better themselves. Sticking with the Spacers also let them call upon a vast network of tipsters and informants, people they could rely on to get information. Eventually, their search paid off, locating Lorei in the Rangers.

Now all HB needed was a way in, and they found it when they were caught up in a raid. The local government knew of their activities but could only pin minor offenses on them. Some basic possession raps would not keep them behind bars for very long, but speaking with the authorities allowed HB to forge yet another path. They offered to make amends by serving the Confederation, and it was determined their skillset would make them an asset to the Rangers.

Key facts:

• HB-202RC is a combination of their old gang nickname and their Crusader designation. In its long form it means 'Horned Bastard, 202nd Zealot of the Ravenous Cohort' (although this is not a perfect translation). Their birth name is currently unknown to Confederate authorities.
• HB refers to themselves with gender-neutral language, as a central tenet of their faith is being interchangeable with their peers.
• While they're not a mechanic and can't do extensive vehicle repairs, HB's medical expertise extends to a wide range of cybernetics.
• They view their faith as a tool as much as a belief system. The philosophy they follow gives them goals to strive for while staying grounded. They're interested in other religious and spiritual beliefs and often adopt facets that resonate with them.
• Similialy, the martial art Mon'rletv, taught to all Zealots, is a tenet of their faith that's practiced syncretically, adapted to use different techniques from different systems.

Personal Gear:

• Rigut Arms Battle Rifle: A high-caliber chemical based firearm, originally designed for use with powered armor. HB's augmented strength allows them to make use of it.
• Mineba 155 Submachine Gun: The Humans have only been in contact with the wider world a short time, but they've managed to make an impact on the arms market. The 155 in particular is popular with criminals who been a large amount of firepower in a concealable package. HB uses it the Battle Rifle risks overpenetrating.
• Zealot's High-Frequency Shock Blade with matching swordbreaker dagger: The traditional weapons of the Zealots, useful for boarding actions and stealth operations.
• Light Battle Armor: A polymer padded vest with inserted plates, connected to a flexible armored undersuit with arm and leg guards. The result is less durable in an extended fight than standard battle armor but is much lighter and more flexible, allowing her to take advantage of her quick movement and sharp reflexes while still using her arm-based cybernetic weapons due to the emitters built into the sleeves.
• Life support systems for use in space or toxic enviroments.
• Medical Equipment: A range of diagnostic and procedural tools and a wide range of medications and nanoinjections covering all manner of injuries and maladies. HB can do everything from set broken bones to full-on surgery, provided they have the space to work in.
• Seraphim Jump Pack: The signature tool of the Zealots. HB uses it to augment their high degree of mobility.

Augments

HB is heavily augmented, to the point that they're more machine than animal by percentage. These are some of their more notable cybernetics.

• CombiComms: Inbuilt translator, communicator and personal computer that directly displays information in HB's field of vision. Automatically shuts down when exposed to electronic warfare.
• Sense Enhancement Suite: The pinnacle of Hegemonic medical technology at the time HB went under the knife, careful surgery and the pinpoint implantation of minute augments gave them increased sensitivity to sound, touch, smell, and vision. The strength is variable; HB can dial it up when they're trying to sense something or down when exposed to extremes.
• Physical Enhancement Suite: An extensive collection of procedures to harden HB's body. Increases their strength and agility through vat-grown tissues, as well as insulates their body against G-forces and high pressure. Their respiratory and circulatory systems are similarly improved, giving them an inbuilt rebreathing system that lessens their need for oxygen. Finally, they are unnaturally flexible due to bendable fibers inserted in their joints.
• Arm-Implanted Weapons: For use in conjunction with conventional firearms. The left arm has an in-built sonic emitter for injuring and debilitating targets for capture while the right is a thermobaric projector that engulfs targets in a short-lived but fiercely hot chemical inferno.

Specialty: Medical Officer/Fire Support

Anything Else:Training and exercise are forms of meditation for HB. An easy way to achieve the Ideal Conscious is to work out until exhaustion and then bask in the sensation of screaming muscles and burning lungs.

Gehenna

Mecha Name: G/OFS-2, "Gehenna"
Type: Fire Support Platform
Crew: One pilot and 3 passengers.
Appearance: Gehenna
Overview: The Gehenna is big and slow and imposing, abnormally large for a mech and much heavier to boot. It naturally draws the eye, towering over the opposition and much of the battlefield itself. It can be considered an 'assasin' of sorts, quickly demolishing high-value targets before they can make problems. To accomplish this task it has been given both extremely powerful weapons and overly thick armor, making it capable of dealing out and taking high amounts of punishment. In an one on one shooting or slugging match there are few that can match it, but it's huge size and sluggish movement make it relatively easy to overwhelm if not adequately supported.
Dimensions:
Height: 20.2 meters
Mass: 40 tons when carrying standard load
Performance: Top speed of 110 kmh

Weapons:

• "Seventh Seal" 300mm Cannon: A howitzer capable of both direct and indirect fire support, on a traveling mount that moves it from the Gehenna's back to its shoulder. It fires various shells ranging from standard high-explosive payloads to shock, incendiary/thermobaric, plasma, and various gases. It's slow to reload, but very long-range and supremely powerful, the largest gun that can be mounted on a mech and still feasibly move.
• x4 Nebula-class CIWS: Rotating-barrel laser weapons, two built into the head and the others built into the palms. The Nebulas are multiple purposes, able to automatically track and destroy incoming missiles or being aimed manually for use against infantry and thin-skinned vehicles.
• Arash Rail Rifle: A long range railgun used for medium targets. If it's too tough for the Nebulas but doesn't warrant the Seventh Seal, it's shot by this.
• Moloch-class Melee Upgrades: While the Gehenna travels slowly it's limbs are specifically designed to move quickly, allowing it to brawl with the speed of a much smaller mech. In addition, it can generate a high-strength plasma field around its first to clamber the enemy into submission.

Equipment:
The Gehenna is a tempting target due to its size, relatively slow traversal, and sheer firepower. While it's well-armored and of solid construction it's not a brawler and will not last if pitted against coordinated enemies. It survives by staying behind friendly forces, serving as fire support before moving to rip apart any isolated foes. Most of its defenses are active, misleading, or destroying enemy missiles while deploying shields and smokescreens to deter projectile or energy weapons.

• Phalanx Integrated Shielding: The Gehenna's thick armor is fortified by an energy field, strengthening it against attack and preventing hull breaches. It can also generate a distinct energy field projected from the Gehenna's arm, but doing this drains the mech's energy.
• Decoy Dones: Simple drones that produce a disproportionately large amount of sensory information, leading enemy attacks away from the MECH when used in conjunction with other systems.
• Repair Drones: Drones equipped with manipulator arms and rudimentary AI, capable of doing basic field repairs.
• Avoidance Systems: Flares, brilliant sand, and hot smoke canisters allow the Gehenna to throw up a defensive screen when under attack. Additionally, it can use its Stealth System to lower its profile on enemy sensors.
• Radar, LiDAR, and Visual Detection Package: A standard sensor set, capable but not outstanding.

Other info:

Dark Space - A Mecha-Focused Space Opera RP (RP Suspended)

HB-202

Name: HB-202RC ('Horned Bastard, 202nd Zealot of the Ravenous Cohort')
Age: 322
Sex: Biologically female
Species: Mon'nnari
Appearance: HB stands taller than the average human male at six feet, not counting their horns, and carries themselves with a warrior's grace. They tend to dress simply and practically, leaning towards cheap and replaceable clothes when at rest and sturdy combat gear when in the field. However, HB does indulge in jewelry. They've decorated their face and horns with several bangles and studs, the flashy adornments a holdover from their criminal career.

If one happened upon HB in a state of undress they'd noticed a number of old surgical scars and sealed ports, relics from their days as a soldier for the Hegemony. Their original cybernetic augments were bulky and obtrusive but as the years went on they've been replaced with more advanced and discrete ones. That said, they are very clearly augmented. While not a full-conversion borg HB is cybered to a very high degree, with seams on their limbs and torso denoting implanted weapons and subdermal armor.

As a side note, instead of the usual red HB bleeds a pale, milky blue. Their blood was replaced with an artificial variant that better regulates temperature and insulates their various augmentations from electromagnetism.

HB

Personality: HB is, at first glance, spacey and out of touch. They never quite learned how to interface normally with society, often coming across as distant or perhaps not entirely there. They have a tendency to look through people rather than at them during a conversation, sizing up someone with all the cold clinicality of a machine crunching numbers. This ruthless calculation is at odds with their sleepy-eyed and dazed expression, a side effect of the drugs running through their system.

Part of HB's faith involves the use of psychoactive substances to achieve the Ideal Conscious, a state of loose calm characterized by meditative introspection and mild hallucination. Words are distorted and images are altered, giving them the sensation of being in a permanent dream. This makes holding a conversation with them an amusing or annoying experience, depending on one's preference. But by using a neural implant hooked into their serotonin receptors they can flush their system of the narcotics, forcing themselves sober. This is an unpleasant experience and makes HB rather taciturn, but they only use it when combat is imminent.

History: The child that would eventually be known as HB-202 was born generations after the Mon'nnari were annexed by the Hegemony, and there was no question about its fate. They were born a Zealot, a religious order of elite warriors and assassins who saw warfare and sabotage as devotional actions. The Zealots believed that they were not free spirits but pieces in a puzzle or cogs in a machine, individual parts that had to work for the good of the whole. As such, it would be inaccurate to say that the child had a family. They knew who their relatives were, but their parents had been assigned to each other by their superiors for the sake of producing future fighters, and their siblings were kept faceless, the same as all the other children in their sept. They ate in the same dining hall and slept in the same barracks but were taught to bond with each other as comrades and nothing more.

The child trained dutifully and was made a full Zealot upon reaching adulthood, replacing a fallen soldier. They were not given a numerical designation but inherited one, becoming the new 202nd of the Ravenous Cohort and then swiftly deployed against the Hegemony's enemies. Zealots were prized for their use as raiders and ambushers, slinking into enemy territory to disrupt supply lines and force troops away from the front lines. At first 202 took action against pirates and dissidents on the fringes of Hegemony territory but with the arrival of the Confederation they were given a proper war to fight.

They served admirably, working with a small ship-based team to harry the intruding forces. Despite the facelessness of the Zealots they were given notable autonomy in the field, often directed towards a region of space and told to make trouble however they saw fit. 202 destroyed ammo depots, contaminated medical supplies, assassinated political and military leaders, and sabotaged refueling stations so that they would explode when docked with anything to hurt the Confederation and force them to stretch themselves thin. They took pride in their work, as by the tenets of their faith every legitimate target destroyed was a positive step on their journey to martial enlightenment. This had been the way of the Zealots before they had served the Hegemony, and their beliefs were tolerated as they produced skilled and devoted agents who did a tremendous amount of damage for their small numbers. But the Hegemony did not allow for deviation from their vision, and the new realities of war brought mandated change.

The Zealots were retrained as mech pilots and the parameters of their missions altered. Now they were less scalpels and more knives, leaving long slashing wounds in the enemy's territory. During the Second Confederation War the Zealots were directed towards vulnerable civilian targets as well as military ones, displacing populations and destroying food supplies to force the Confederation to deal with defenseless people. 202 did as instructed, taking the initiative and earning a reputation for damaging power plants and water storage units, but they were disquieted by this new method of warfare.

By the third war the mandate had changed yet again, and the Ravenous Cohort lived up to its name. 202 and their comrades now served a purely destructive role, practicing a sort of proactive scorched earth where they simply rampaged across a region to do as much damage as possible and stymie attempts to rebuild. 202 shelled cities and herded civilians out of their homes and into the wilderness as commanded, but they did it without enthusiasm. The Hegemony had morphed the Zealots into something far removed from their original purpose, and 202, feeling abandoned, abandoned it in turn. The end of the war saw them stuck far behind Confederate lines and they didn't bother escaping back to friendly territory.

Now in the boundary between the Halo and the Frontier of Confederation space 202 found themselves in the Antarus System, a cluster of small moons and planets known for two things: mining operations, and vice of all sorts. While their medical training and knowledge on augmentation could have gotten them steady work as a doctor 202 still craved the comradery and sense of unity that came with fighting for a larger group, and their military-grade cybernetics and martial skill made them valuable for anyone looking for a fight. They fell in with the Rock Rats, a collection of toughs dealing in black market ore and stolen goods. 202 quickly earned a reputation for brawling, taking part in turf wars with their gangster brethren. Being one of the few, if not only Mon'nnari in the system they were dubbed the Horned Bastard, a moniker they adopted to replace their now abandoned Hegemony name.

After a few years of tangling with street thugs and pirates HB attracted the attention of bigger players. The Rock Rats were subordinate to the Spacers Syndicate, a truly intergalactic network spanning the Confederation and the ISA. Always on the hunt for talent, HB-202's loyalty and ruthlessness was smiled upon, and they were granted a spot in the Spacers' ranks. They were again enjoying themselves as the people they fought were rivals or debtors, folks who should have known better than to have involved themselves. But as they moved up the ranks, they became responsible for more rackets, and the wider their reach, the less they could narrow their sights. Once again HB found themselves picking on civilians, bullying dockyard workers and bureaucrats into silence. Their conscious picked at them, and HB began wondering if they should make another career change.

Roughly three decades into their tenure with the Syndicate HB met a young Synth on shore leave from the Confederation ship she was stationed on. Lorei was intriguing in many ways to the assassin-turned-mobster; her existence as an artificial being with free will was a fascinating prospect to someone who had spent their whole life seconding their autonomy to a greater whole. In fact, Lorei in general intrigued HB. As they spent time together 202 grew to appreciate her openness, her willingness to indulge in order to learn, her ability to be cocky without being offputting. For the first time in HB's life, they felt not a vague loyalty to fellow cogs in some larger machine but mutual affection on an individual level.

A romance blossomed and promised to grow into something wonderful, but reality had a way of intruding. The Shodane War saw HB's Beloved Synth pulled away to fight and then subjected to torture that could only be suffered by an artificial mind. When the pair reunited it was a one-sided affair. Lorei could bring up snippets of conversations they had or remember HB's favorite drink, but their entire relationship was twisted and warped so as to be almost completely nonexistent. HB was no stranger to altering their consciousness and emptying their mind, but such a brutal scrubbing of their Beloved Synth horrified them. They desperately tried to patch things up in any way they could, but Lorei, ashamed by her inability to connect her fragmented memories to emotions she knew she was supposed to feel, ran away.

HB had been planning on leaving their criminal life but now had no reason to do so, languidly going through the motions of underworld politics for another twenty years. Without Lorei around they saw no purpose in change, but chance would eventually give them a reason to better themselves. Sticking with the Spacers also let them call upon a vast network of tipsters and informants, people they could rely on to get information. Eventually, their search paid off, locating Lorei in the Rangers.

Now all HB needed was a way in, and they found it when they were caught up in a raid. The local government knew of their activities but could only pin minor offenses on them. Some basic possession raps would not keep them behind bars for very long, but speaking with the authorities allowed HB to forge yet another path. They offered to make amends by serving the Confederation, and it was determined their skillset would make them an asset to the Rangers.

Key facts:

• HB-202RC is a combination of their old gang nickname and their Crusader designation. In its long form it means 'Horned Bastard, 202nd Zealot of the Ravenous Cohort' (although this is not a perfect translation). Their birth name is currently unknown to Confederate authorities.
• HB refers to themselves with gender-neutral language, as a central tenet of their faith is being interchangeable with their peers.
• While they're not a mechanic and can't do extensive vehicle repairs, HB's medical expertise extends to a wide range of cybernetics.
• They view their faith as a tool as much as a belief system. The philosophy they follow gives them goals to strive for while staying grounded. They're interested in other religious and spiritual beliefs and often adopt facets that resonate with them.
• Similialy, the martial art Mon'rletv, taught to all Zealots, is a tenet of their faith that's practiced syncretically, adapted to use different techniques from different systems.

Personal Gear:

• Rigut Arms Battle Rifle: A high-caliber chemical based firearm, originally designed for use with powered armor. HB's augmented strength allows them to make use of it.
• Mineba 155 Submachine Gun: The Humans have only been in contact with the wider world a short time, but they've managed to make an impact on the arms market. The 155 in particular is popular with criminals who been a large amount of firepower in a concealable package. HB uses it the Battle Rifle risks overpenetrating.
• Zealot's High-Frequency Shock Blade with matching swordbreaker dagger: The traditional weapons of the Zealots, useful for boarding actions and stealth operations.
• Light Battle Armor: A polymer padded vest with inserted plates, connected to a flexible armored undersuit with arm and leg guards. The result is less durable in an extended fight than standard battle armor but is much lighter and more flexible, allowing her to take advantage of her quick movement and sharp reflexes while still using her arm-based cybernetic weapons due to the emitters built into the sleeves.
• Life support systems for use in space or toxic enviroments.
• Medical Equipment: A range of diagnostic and procedural tools and a wide range of medications and nanoinjections covering all manner of injuries and maladies. HB can do everything from set broken bones to full-on surgery, provided they have the space to work in.
• Seraphim Jump Pack: The signature tool of the Zealots. HB uses it to augment their high degree of mobility.

Augments

HB is heavily augmented, to the point that they're more machine than animal by percentage. These are some of their more notable cybernetics.

• CombiComms: Inbuilt translator, communicator and personal computer that directly displays information in HB's field of vision. Automatically shuts down when exposed to electronic warfare.
• Sense Enhancement Suite: The pinnacle of Hegemonic medical technology at the time HB went under the knife, careful surgery and the pinpoint implantation of minute augments gave them increased sensitivity to sound, touch, smell, and vision. The strength is variable; HB can dial it up when they're trying to sense something or down when exposed to extremes.
• Physical Enhancement Suite: An extensive collection of procedures to harden HB's body. Increases their strength and agility through vat-grown tissues, as well as insulates their body against G-forces and high pressure. Their respiratory and circulatory systems are similarly improved, giving them an inbuilt rebreathing system that lessens their need for oxygen. Finally, they are unnaturally flexible due to bendable fibers inserted in their joints.
• Arm-Implanted Weapons: For use in conjunction with conventional firearms. The left arm has an in-built sonic emitter for injuring and debilitating targets for capture while the right is a thermobaric projector that engulfs targets in a short-lived but fiercely hot chemical inferno.

Specialty: Medical Officer/Fire Support

Anything Else:Training and exercise are forms of meditation for HB. An easy way to achieve the Ideal Conscious is to work out until exhaustion and then bask in the sensation of screaming muscles and burning lungs.

Gehenna

Mecha Name: G/OFS-2, "Gehenna"
Type: Fire Support Platform
Crew: One pilot and 3 passengers.
Appearance: Gehenna
Overview: The Gehenna is big and slow and imposing, abnormally large for a mech and much heavier to boot. It naturally draws the eye, towering over the opposition and much of the battlefield itself. It can be considered an 'assasin' of sorts, quickly demolishing high-value targets before they can make problems. To accomplish this task it has been given both extremely powerful weapons and overly thick armor, making it capable of dealing out and taking high amounts of punishment. In an one on one shooting or slugging match there are few that can match it, but it's huge size and sluggish movement make it relatively easy to overwhelm if not adequately supported.
Dimensions:
Height: 20.2 meters
Mass: 40 tons when carrying standard load
Performance: Top speed of 110 kmh

Weapons:

• "Seventh Seal" 300mm Cannon: A howitzer capable of both direct and indirect fire support, on a traveling mount that moves it from the Gehenna's back to its shoulder. It fires various shells ranging from standard high-explosive payloads to shock, incendiary/thermobaric, plasma, and various gases. It's slow to reload, but very long-range and supremely powerful, the largest gun that can be mounted on a mech and still feasibly move.
• x4 Nebula-class CIWS: Rotating-barrel laser weapons, two built into the head and the others built into the palms. The Nebulas are multiple purposes, able to automatically track and destroy incoming missiles or being aimed manually for use against infantry and thin-skinned vehicles.
• Arash Rail Rifle: A long range railgun used for medium targets. If it's too tough for the Nebulas but doesn't warrant the Seventh Seal, it's shot by this.
• Moloch-class Melee Upgrades: While the Gehenna travels slowly it's limbs are specifically designed to move quickly, allowing it to brawl with the speed of a much smaller mech. In addition, it can generate a high-strength plasma field around its first to clamber the enemy into submission.

Equipment:
The Gehenna is a tempting target due to its size, relatively slow traversal, and sheer firepower. While it's well-armored and of solid construction it's not a brawler and will not last if pitted against coordinated enemies. It survives by staying behind friendly forces, serving as fire support before moving to rip apart any isolated foes. Most of its defenses are active, misleading, or destroying enemy missiles while deploying shields and smokescreens to deter projectile or energy weapons.

• Phalanx Integrated Shielding: The Gehenna's thick armor is fortified by an energy field, strengthening it against attack and preventing hull breaches. It can also generate a distinct energy field projected from the Gehenna's arm, but doing this drains the mech's energy.
• Decoy Dones: Simple drones that produce a disproportionately large amount of sensory information, leading enemy attacks away from the MECH when used in conjunction with other systems.
• Repair Drones: Drones equipped with manipulator arms and rudimentary AI, capable of doing basic field repairs.
• Avoidance Systems: Flares, brilliant sand, and hot smoke canisters allow the Gehenna to throw up a defensive screen when under attack. Additionally, it can use its Stealth System to lower its profile on enemy sensors.
• Radar, LiDAR, and Visual Detection Package: A standard sensor set, capable but not outstanding.

Other info: