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Okay, so I comitted The Dumb and only noticed the "...you will be people from around the remains of the empire. From it's heartland..." bit after having written most of the CS. I'm gonna leave it here in case it gets a pass. If not, yell at me and I'll get to editing.

Righty-ho, should have an Elven knight done by tomorrow.
Back to the ‘mechs at hand. It made sense to focus on those, the aerojock would likely go home with no more ‘mechs to support. If they were exceptionally lucky, the Fire Witch would blow a gasket and maim the poor bastard, taking the Mechbuster out of the action for some time. Seemed in character for the Witch from what little Marit knew. She remained standing, quickly attaining lock on onto the Crusader at the edge of minimum range for her missiles when she noticed something. The speed and direction he was moving, if she moved over there, he’d be right in range for an easy shot with the lasers.

Marit spurred Archie forward as she switched firing groups, the boosted lasers hungry for the crusader’s blood when Steel Rain fired, striking the far end of the bridge with too much ordnance for it to be a miss. Ingrid and Tarak confirmed it, moving off the bridge. It was that time, apparently, and fast, lest the Fists grow wiser to their scheme. Adjusting left, she came to a halt beside Raven’s Shadow Hawk, making sure she wasn’t in the way of anyone and turned her crosshairs onto the close end of the bridge, Archie’s four lasers slicing across the ice and rock like scalpels to cut the bridge off. ”Summer’s over, have a nice fall.” She snickered to herself as she decided ‘fuck it’ and sent two LRM salvos to te far end of the bridge. The air immediately became drier as the last trigger was pulled, feeling like hot sandpaper in her nose and throat. ”Fuck, this was a mistake.” She whined, Archie offering the opposite of moral support as the cockpit temperature air gauge climbed past 40°C.
Checking in.

What are the lifespans of Dwarves and Elves and roughly when did the City of Light fall?
Sounds great, count me in.
Well this fell apart faster than an OceanGate sub. But at least people had the decency to say they're out, that's a luxury for this site.
Boraro
Briefing room, 1800 hours

You could hardly think of a worse place to fight than one such as they were about to go to. Hardly any cover, obstructed lines of sight and swarms of civilians. He was very happy with the rooftop approach, staying out of that soup. At least Rose wouldn’t be an issue, killing Skye by mistake wouldn’t have been great.

”Where I grew up, people learned to duck and crawl.” He replied to Chuck’s concern. He was no war criminal, apart from being an illegal combatant his entire life by virtue of being a mercenary, so of course he’d check his targets, but in the end people were responsible for their own safety. And if Raven failed, a lot more people than one could ever cram onto a Moroccan market would die. If a 100 innocents died and a 101 were saved by their actions, then it was worth it. It was the Gendarmes that worried him, those would go in seeking out the shooters instead of clearing out, unaware of who Raven were and would have to be dealt with, preferably without killing cops actually trying to do their job in earnest.

”I doubt we’ll avoid spotters. All it takes is an Artemis operative with a drone. If that was my compound, I’d have at least two out at all times. No one looks twice at a hobby or professional photography drone and most people can’t tell a tank from an MRAP, much less the differences between a civilian and disguised military drone 50 meters in the air.” He offered.

Armory, 0000 hours

Ebrima had no idea how the Blue Sword tech wizards managed to get the reliably unreliable shotgun drums to behave, but 20 instead of ten shots per magazine was well worth whatever dark voodoo they had to perform, carrying four and four of slugs and old reliable flechettes, joined by two drums of beanbags to deal with johnny law. The armorer swore up and down they cycled without changing the gas settings, and the drums have bought them enough goodwill to take their word for it. Another upgrade that would come in handy were the less-than-lethal grenades, Ebrima packing two magazines of the stunners on top of his usual loadout, preloading the stunners. Rounding out the goods were three magazines of 5,56x45 blacktips for the MDR plus one of subsonics to deal with any spotters, two for the USP and the Kukri. Finishing the prepwork was a kevlar helmet and a level IV plate carrier strapped to the outside of his pack. The situation might require them to put a bullet into Simmonds themselves if it all goes wrong, but losing him to a stray round was not on the agenda.

He would’ve loved the upgrades, better jump pack control and exoskeleton mobility being something that would’ve come in handy running across rooftops, but alas, no dice. At least the techs would have more time to make sure there were no nasty surprises in it. Tracking nanites in blood, who knew what could be in the suit and its software. Ebrima was still surprised it didn’t detonate on Rose’s death. Everything ready, he began exercising the exoskeleton to make sure everything sat right and didn’t snag, paying special attention to the drum pouches on his abdomen, Powerwolf’s ‘Glaubenskraft’ in his helmet to set the mood.
leaving tentative interest here.
Boraro
Camp Hannula, Raven’s Rock

There were enough people preparing breakfast already so he simply stayed out of the way and watched, taking mental notes. He took point on the dishes, no one’s favorite aspect of food, but a necessary evil. Breakfast eaten and kitchen clean, now was time for work. Some of the tech staff mentioned something about upgrades to the suit, and as soon as he heard the words “increased mobility without sacrificing protection” he was hooked.

Well, it was a nice thought. As soon as the new software was loaded, he got no less than five errors. Being told that “That’s normal.” by the technician, he paid it no mind until they made it to the test track. As soon as he tried to activate his jump pack, the suit went into limp mode, started playing his music library through the helmet’s headset on shuffle and jacked the environment controls to the highest it would allow, the setting meant for rapid reheating after falling into cold water, and the mosaic of error windows on the wrist computer and even his HUD indicating some real bad ones handily put the launch of the Generation IV Octavia to shame as far as software fuckups were concerned.

“The suit’s a pre-production prototype.” He was told when he got out of the human-shaped, metal-blasting, barely-mobile oven. Unfortunately, the man responsible for his suit’s software had not made it out of Kaitaki, leaving it to the two techs that accompanied him on the shakedown run the night of the attack and some Blue Sword guy from the base’s IT department to perform electronic exorcism as they pored over millions of lines of someone else’s code, figuring out what it did and why it wasn’t working, restoring his suit to its previous functionality from a backup for now. One thing was clear immediately: Upgrades would have to wait.

Life was weird, somehow giving him a free afternoon and making him absolutely hate it.

Camp Hannula, Dinner time

It was clear to anyone who cooked for a lot of people regularly that a big cookout was in the works, the arrangements hard to miss when one knew where to look. He made some preparations of his own, managing to get his hands on some readily available supplies and some yeast, misjudging the time by around 30 minutes. No matter, at least the dough would rise more. Given that Tahlia and Chuck had hauled in several reindeer, more pastry would not hurt and what he had planned could be frozen in case there were leftovers. Although with this many giants on hand, plus Freya in the infirmary, he doubted that. As the venison was cooked, he joined the organized chaos with the sounds of sizzling oil and before long, the first batches of Gateau started rolling out onto the tables. It wasn’t bread, but he didn’t have enough time to make that properly and delicious balls of deep fried dough - half plain, half with herbs and garlic - would do just as well.

With just a few bites, Ebrima resolved to get that curry recipe from Purna. His recipe list was extensive, but fairly poor on the curry side despite a few months’ stay in Thailand and this one definitely earned its place. Not now though, some better time would present itself eventually. Right now, there was teambuilding to be done. Having finished his portion, he took stock of the party. He’d spoken with Chuck and Tahlia on the plane a bit, but little more than a general greeting to Oliver. Then he recalled the missing giant, a ‘two-in-one’ opportunity presenting itself and thus he set out for Samantha, approaching with a broad, friendly smile. ”Nothing like a shared meal to bring people together, no? But we are a giant short. And if I know one thing about medical facilities, they tend to be dreary and make you eat healthy, not good. Are we feeling up to a bit of smuggling, doing a bit of bad for a lot of good? A rack of ribs, half a leg, pastry and some sauce may not heal a shoulder, but will definitely heal the spirit.”
Boraro
Camp Hannula, Raven’s Rock common room

He greeted the assembly politely before taking a seat, a familiar face joining him almost instantly. Ebrima agreed it made sense to get the knife in the room out of the way quickly, scoffing at the mention of ‘a trophy’. Perhaps that perception was part of the issue, on top of the near-religious significance the kukri held to the Ghurkas of course. To Ebrima, it wasn’t a trophy, it was a tool first and foremost. A trophy was something that hung on a wall, not combat armor’s utility belt. Not that he planned on returning it either way, not before he died or retired, whichever came first. But at least he got a name out of the exchange, somewhere to have it delivered when that day came, assuming Purna wouldn’t simply walk into the armory and take it from his weapons locker without anyone being wiser to it. It was nearly impossible to keep something safe from infiltrators. Infiltrators and taxmen. He drew the line at the condescending shoulder pat, intercepting it with his hand. The pocket psycho would need a bit of a cold shower. Ebrima knew it was unwise to provoke a snake with your bare foot, but the two giants in the room were a reassuring presence. Even though their allegiance to Raven was still somewhat questionable, and he was still an outsider even to that, he couldn’t see a mentally level person standing by if someone else got attacked over the possession of an item. That being said, there was one giant in the room he couldn’t see stand by if someone got attacked over the possession of an item.

He was about to respond when the other giant seemingly forgot she was a giant. Ebrima waited for Purna to resituate himself and pick up his dignity before speaking. ”The story. It should be said.” He spoke in a serious voice bereft of the usual mirthful subtone as he accepted the chocolate with a nod of appreciation, but did not whisper as Purna had. Like when negotiating a contract, he aimed for transparency. ”Sometimes when you put things off for later, you don’t get a chance to do them at all. So, the full story:” He said with the air of bitter experience with unfinished business, turning to look Purna directly in the eyes with a switch back to his earlier deadpan delivery. ”I lived, he died. And if he didn’t want his equipment salvaged, he should’ve left it at home. Such is life.” Ebrima let Purna believe his friend fought valiantly, no doubt in his mind he would have if given the chance, which is why he didn’t offer that courtesy. Half a squad of Burmese rebels for bait, several 5,45x39-sized ventilation ports in Sergeant Rai’s back and that was all she wrote. Ebrima was on thin enough ice already, no point taking a sledgehammer to it by provoking Purna even more than he was as is by simply existing.

He listened to Sam speak her piece, offering an appreciative nod and a smile. Self-reflection was something he’d had to figuratively - once or twice literally - beat into a younger merc on a semi-regular basis, and it bode well for the future that it wouldn’t be the case here. Perhaps it was as simple as being placed in a position one was not suited for, or being rushed into it too early. Good as she was, even Skye wasn’t infallible. ”Any good news from the intelligence shack?”
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