Supermaxx

Gobonauts: Invisible Invasion

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Gobonauts: Invisible Invasion

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"W-what do you mean you don't see them?! They're RIGHT in front of you, mom!"

Young denizen of Bison, Ohio moments before his demise

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Modern Fantasy - Occult Fiction - Mystery/Thriller

---

Summer break has dawned for the you and the other kids of sleepy little Bison, Ohio. It brings with it freedom from the crushing anxiety of school, endless relaxation in the town's (only) public pool, half-off sodas at the gas station and...

Monsters.

Unseen things, lurking just in the corner of your vision. You'd swear you saw something, yet when you turned to look, nothing was truly amiss. But you knew.

You knew something was there.

The adults don't see it. Your parents look at you like you're out of your mind. So you tried to shake it off- tried to keep it to yourself.

It kept happening. In fact, the sightings were getting worse and worse. You caught sight of more than just shapes. Full limbs, sickly green skin, and those horrific, beady eyes...

You're going crazy. Hallucinating. There was no other explanation for it, right? That was what you thought, until you finally let it slip to a friend-

And they told you they were seeing the same things as you.

---

The Setting

---

Welcome to Gobonauts, home of all things skin-crawlingly delightful. Though that introduction was short, and information sparse, this is entirely deliberate. For you see, Gobonauts: Invisible Invasion is a story about discovery. Leave everything you thought you knew about the world at the door, for everything passed this point will defy all of that.

You are entering the realm of the strange, with nothing to guide you along but your own wits and intuitions. Your imagination is the key to unlocking the secrets of Bison, and it is the codex from which you will find the answers to all of your questions.

You- or your character, if you prefer- are a resident of this tiny, sleepy little town in the middle of nowhere. With less than two thousand residents calling it home, it's no wonder that the kids and teenagers might get a little restless.

There's not much to do, save what you come up with yourself. Whether that's by joining a hundred other kids blowing out speakers and drinking precarious amounts of cheap beer in the Old Woods, or by skulking off to the public library to stuff your face in an original, 1948 Farmer's Almanac, everyone finds a way to survive the blistering heat and unmitigated boredom of small town life.

Things only started getting strange two or three days ago. It was different for everyone. Perhaps you were alone, wasting away in your backyard when you saw it. Or maybe you and a group of friends were just going down to the bowling alley when it first appeared. There were a hundred different encounters all in the same day, yet one thing remained the same throughout each:

They had no idea what they'd seen, and there was not a single person over seventeen present when it happened.

All over town, from the far reaches of the woodland to smack dab in Downtown, and even in the fields outside city limits, 'encounters' took place. No one has seen one full on quite yet. Whatever these things are, they're skulking, almost...deliberately.

You have a sneaking suspicion that they won't stay hidden for long.

---

OOC Information

---

Listen. I know that we're all busy people here, and that we've all got a lot to do and that this whole website's just a hobby. I fully understand when people drop out, or when they can't make time to post for whatever reason. I do all that same stuff too. However.

I've found that a lot of feet dragging and time wasting kills RPs, to put it plainly. So I'll be experimenting with a little more stringent a posting schedule than I tend to see kicked around. I'd like everyone to make time for at the very least a single post per week. It doesn't have to be long. If you shoot for two paragraphs and show me that you're putting in an effort, than that's more than enough. But I would very much like to see an RP that doesn't stutter out and die because of inactivity.

On top of that, I'd ask that your posts contain high school level spelling, grammar and structure. I don't need (or even necessarily want) essays, but there needs to be enough in your posts for other people to work off of. Like I said, two paragraphs or more is just fine.

Finally, I would ask that, above all else, you're respectful to everyone involved. It shouldn't have to be said that this is a game. It's meant to be fun! But being an asshat isn't fun; especially for everyone else. If your behavior is found to be grossly rude, then I apologize, but I don't want you here.

If you're committed to the above clauses, welcome aboard! I'm looking for as many recruits for the cause as I can get. The more the merrier. If you have any questions, fill free to ask, though I'm going to try and shy away from revealing too much about the fantasy aspects of the story. Hopefully you'll be diving in with roughly the same amount of information as your characters.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

---

Gobonauts: Invisible Invasion

---

"W-what do you mean you don't see them?! They're RIGHT in front of you, mom!"

Young denizen of Bison, Ohio moments before his demise

---

Modern Fantasy - Occult Fiction - Mystery/Thriller

---

Summer break has dawned for the you and the other kids of sleepy little Bison, Ohio. It brings with it freedom from the crushing anxiety of school, endless relaxation in the town's (only) public pool, half-off sodas at the gas station and...

Monsters.

Unseen things, lurking just in the corner of your vision. You'd swear you saw something, yet when you turned to look, nothing was truly amiss. But you knew.

You knew something was there.

The adults don't see it. Your parents look at you like you're out of your mind. So you tried to shake it off- tried to keep it to yourself.

It kept happening. In fact, the sightings were getting worse and worse. You caught sight of more than just shapes. Full limbs, sickly green skin, and those horrific, beady eyes...

You're going crazy. Hallucinating. There was no other explanation for it, right? That was what you thought, until you finally let it slip to a friend-

And they told you they were seeing the same things as you.

---

The Setting

---

Introduction

Welcome to Gobonauts, home of all things skin-crawlingly delightful. Though that introduction was short, and information sparse, this is entirely deliberate. For you see, Gobonauts: Invisible Invasion is a story about discovery. Leave everything you thought you knew about the world at the door, for everything passed this point will defy all of that.

You are entering the realm of the strange, with nothing to guide you along but your own wits and intuitions. Your imagination is the key to unlocking the secrets of Bison, and it is the codex from which you will find the answers to all of your questions.

You- or your character, if you prefer- are a resident of this tiny, sleepy little town in the middle of nowhere. With less than two thousand residents calling it home, it's no wonder that the kids and teenagers might get a little restless.

There's not much to do, save what you come up with yourself. Whether that's by joining a hundred other kids blowing out speakers and drinking precarious amounts of cheap beer in the Old Woods, or by skulking off to the public library to stuff your face in an original, 1948 Farmer's Almanac, everyone finds a way to survive the blistering heat and unmitigated boredom of small town life.

Things only started getting strange two or three days ago. It was different for everyone. Perhaps you were alone, wasting away in your backyard when you saw it. Or maybe you and a group of friends were just going down to the bowling alley when it first appeared. There were a hundred different encounters all in the same day, yet one thing remained the same throughout each:

They had no idea what they'd seen, and there was not a single person over seventeen present when it happened.

All over town, from the far reaches of the woodland to smack dab in Downtown, and even in the fields outside city limits, 'encounters' took place. No one has seen one full on quite yet. Whatever these things are, they're skulking, almost...deliberately.

You have a sneaking suspicion that they won't stay hidden for long.

Bison, Ohio Tour Guide

Presented by the Sleeping Sentry Gazette,

Welcome to Bison, wayward traveler! Though we know you'd never intentionally stop in our little hamlet, we're more than happy to have you here! We're small yet homey, and we have all the essentials for your small town living needs. Listed below are our wonderful town's best attractions!

Bison Public Library: Founded nearly eighty years ago in 1939, the library is a two story brick building that's only been restored a record of three times! Though the paint's peeling in a few places, you won't find a greater source of information about Bison anywhere else- not even the internet! We boast a collection of over six THOUSAND books, most of which were donated by our ever-generous citizens. Several of Bison's clubs meet in the library, and you can find that schedule posted up on the community board!

Bison Town Hall: Our town hall is truly something to behold. The Sleeping Sentry Gazette awarded it the title of 'Fanciest Building In Town' in 1986, and it's still going strong! Boasting an entrance of gargantuan marble pillars and a door so heavy it has a two-man door-opening team, the town hall is the premier spot for prom pictures. It hosts Bison's mayoral and town council elections, as well as tri-weekly meetings to discuss the state of the community in it's fabulous meeting hall venue. A fun fact for you all: the town hall also hosts our very own local court cases! How exciting!

Gabbson Public Pool: Want to get out of the blistering heat? There's no better respite than the cool waters of Gabbson! As the only pool in town, it is THE hot spot for Bison's many youths. Twenty five meters long and over eight feet at it's deepest, there's more than enough room for the whole gang. Special features include a diving board, a water slide, and- most recently- a hot tub! The pool is located juuustt outside of Spring Park in the middle of town, so you can't miss it!

Spring Park: Speaking of Spring Park, no tour guide list is complete without it. Over a mile from end to end, Spring Park is an all-natural destination for every nature lover out there who doesn't want to leave the comforts of civilization behind. Following the jogging path, you'll be able to visit all the best spots in the park: the basketball court, the spring-fed fountain, and of course the ever popular picnic shelter.

Youngsters' Paradise: The oldest perpetually operated business in Bison, Youngsters' Paradise was once the undisputed king of teenage hangouts. It was the hippest joint in town for over forty years! Everyone knows that things can't last forever, though; kids these days care more about their smartphones than good grub. But never fear, for Bison's favorite diner continues it's vigilant watch over the people's stomachs! If you want a shake, burger or pizza, there's not a better spot for miles than the Paradise. As a reminder to all subscribers of the Gazette, you can find your 10% off coupons to the Paradise on the back of every week's issue. Don't let those go to waste!

Supporting Cast

Sheriff Joseph Beckers: The long arm of the law in Bison, Sheriff Beckers has been working his beat for thirty years. It's been said that Joseph came out of the womb with a cigar in-between his teeth and a revolver on his hip, and he hasn't lost either in all fifty-five years of living. A cranky bastard to some and a beacon of morality to others, he's the man that everyone goes to when McKelly inevitably threatens them with some form of firearm.

Deputy Mark Baker: A new addition to the team at Bison's Sheriff's Office, Baker made his mark on the town last year when he crashed Senior Prom Night chasing three kids he'd seen sharing a joint. He ended up attempting to arrest thirty eight kids, nine adults, and the school principal for 'obstruction of justice.' All charges were dropped forty five minutes after the incident, and the mayor delivered his first public apology in over a decade and a half.

Mayor Gideon Gardens: Bison's first ever elected black mayor, Gideon Gardens makes sure everyone knows it- he even made his own official plaque to celebrate the occasion. A laid back man that cares more about posing for pictures than actual municipal work, most people either love the man or hate him. Charismatic though he may be, a collection of killer knock-knock jokes doesn't fix the pothole on Seventh Street.

Principal Linda Martins: If the term 'bubbly' could ever be applied solely to one person, not a soul in Bison would hesitate to give that title to Bison High School's newest principal. A young transfer all the way from Columbus, Linda Martins strives for academic excellence. She obsesses to outdo her competitors in the neighboring towns, almost always too eager to encourage students to study, study, study! Two years ago, during national testing, Martins called a record number of kids and personally assisted them in prepping for the test. For all of her efforts, Bison has managed to rise up to become the eighteenth worst in terms of overall grading in all Ohio townships. A staggering improvement from the tenth worst spot that it once occupied!

Ol' Cameron McKelly: Not much is known about Cameron personally. He rolled into town ten years ago in a busted up pick-up truck, and hasn't said a single friendly word to anyone in Bison since. Not to say he isn't talkative, of course; McKelly has spewed enough hatred and vitriol to make a Neo-Nazi blush. He's fiercely protective of his property, often threatening violence against any who dare get too close to his barbed fence. More than fifteen different neighbors have rotated out of his block since Cameron moved in. Attempts have been made to connect the old man to numerous missing persons cases- out of an attempt to get rid of the awful old man or from genuine suspicion no one quite knows- but neither the Gazette's nastiest dirt-finders or the Sheriff have had any luck finding anything incriminating.

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OOC Information

---

Da Rules:

Listen. I know that we're all busy people here, and that we've all got a lot to do and that this whole website's just a hobby. I fully understand when people drop out, or when they can't make time to post for whatever reason. I do all that same stuff too. However.

I've found that a lot of feet dragging and time wasting kills RPs, to put it plainly. So I'll be experimenting with a little more stringent a posting schedule than I tend to see kicked around. I'd like everyone to make time for at the very least a single post per week. It doesn't have to be long. If you shoot for two paragraphs and show me that you're putting in an effort, than that's more than enough. But I would very much like to see an RP that doesn't stutter out and die because of inactivity.

On top of that, I'd ask that your posts contain high school level spelling, grammar and structure. I don't need (or even necessarily want) essays, but there needs to be enough in your posts for other people to work off of. Like I said, two paragraphs or more is just fine.

Finally, I would ask that, above all else, you're respectful to everyone involved. It shouldn't have to be said that this is a game. It's meant to be fun! But being an asshat isn't fun; especially for everyone else. If your behavior is found to be grossly rude, then I apologize, but I don't want you here.

If you're committed to the above clauses, welcome aboard! I'm looking for as many recruits for the cause as I can get. The more the merrier. If you have any questions, fill free to ask, though I'm going to try and shy away from revealing too much about the fantasy aspects of the story. Hopefully you'll be diving in with roughly the same amount of information as your characters.

The Character Sheet:

Character Sheet Template

[center]

[img]Your character's picture goes here[/img]
[h2]Character Name[/h2]
[sub]Character Quote[/sub]

[/center]
[b]Full Name:[/b] First, middle, last.
[b]Nickname:[/b] If applicable.
[b]Age:[/b] Between twelve and seventeen is preferred, may allow under twelve if your CS is very convincing.

[b]Gender:[/b] Self explanatory.
[b]Place of Birth:[/b] Were you born right here in Bison? Or did some poor soul get dragged here by the cuff of their shirt?
[b]Grade:[/b]

[b]Strengths:[/b] Personal skills, physical attributes, or inherent traits. List what's important.

[b]Weaknesses:[/b] Fears, physical drawbacks, vices. A perfect character is a boring one.

[b]Belongings:[/b] Things they own that are, again, important in some way. Could be anything from a good luck charm to their new car.

[b]Relationships:[/b] Bison is a small town, and most of you almost certainly go to the same school. It wouldn't be a stretch for everyone to know each other. I encourage prospective players to reach out to one another. Rivalries, friendships, potential crushes- you can't have a good story without 'em!

[b]Fun Fact:[/b] When the teacher tells everyone to give one 'fun fact' about themselves, what fun fact does your character give?

[b]Introduction:[/b] Let us meet your character. Outline either an important event in their life or simply a day in the life that let's us get to know them. Think of it like an IC post meant to give your fellow players an idea of who this person is, what their personality is like, and what their place in Bison is. A sample post. Length should be adequate for me to get a good idea of what your usual 'level' is.

The Redwatch

Attor

"The Watch is old. It's fadin', son, and maybe...maybe we should let it."

Attor Snakeslayer, to his last apprentice

Name:
Attor Snakeslayer

Rank:
Watcher

Appearance:
Mice have many enemies. Their foes come in any number of shapes and sizes. Great and small, from the tiniest shrew upstart to the vicious serpent monsters that tower above them, Mice have many enemies indeed. The greatest of these, though, is one often forgotten. Young mice in particular worry more about rats, weasels and lizards; they don't remember that foe of foes until their whiskers are long and their paws are wrinkled. Only in the final whispers of their years do Mice tend to turn their eye on the enemy that takes more Mice than all the rest.

That enemy, of course, is time.

And Attor knows it well.

Time's claws have worn him down. They have scratched, cut and bitten until that once proud soul is little more than a shadow of his former self, though the mouse would never admit it. His ugly coat, once black as midnight, now lies across his back matted, discolored and dirty. Eyes of unbreakable steel that once stared death in the face with unblinking courage have dulled and quieted, like the edge of an overused blade.

That was what Attor was, in truth: an old sword that'd seen one too many battles.

His right ear is torn; chipped like the brittle edge of a rusted dagger. His whiskers are long and droopy, nearly brushing against the ground when Attor goes to sit.

The marks of war and violence are prevalent across him, to the point where one would be hard-pressed to mark Attor as anything but an old soldier. Scars adorn most of his coat and body, from cuts to poorly healed burns and everything in-between. The worst of these injuries is a long, gnarly tear across his right forearm. A rat's blade tasted deep in his flesh many a moon ago, and Attor has had trouble opening that paw ever since. He was forced to relearn how to use both quill and sword with his left arm, though it's hard to tell he's not a natural lefty given how long ago that was.

Even the Snakeslayer's cloak has not aged well. Once bright like polished bronze, his mentor had remarked that Attor was more weasel than mouse, such was his slipperiness and savagery. Both of those traits have been worn down to the nub, much like the coloring of his cloak. Old bones don't dip and dive as they used to, and Attor finds little satisfaction in bloodshed anymore. His cloak is torn and discolored, covered in rough, self-made patches to keep it from falling apart. He's in dire need of a replacement, though the mouse would rather die than replace the last thing his master ever gave him.

Personality:
Attor Snakeslayer is the best storyteller in all the Kingdoms of Gnaw. Or so he would have you believe. He's had a fondness for stories since he was but a mere boy, sparked first by the tales his father would read to him before bed. Even as he grew older, stronger and wiser, Attor never lost that love, though there were fewer and fewer stories that he hadn't heard before.

So he decided to make his own.

It was easiest to find stories among the Redwatch. They were something of a living legend to Attor. And in their midst he decided to craft his own legend. He wasn't very good at it in the beginning, as all orators, writers and would-be tale-weavers can attest to. But he sharpened his verse and widened his expressions through the years, crafting newer and better tales as he went out and lived them for himself. That was how he came by his title: Snakeslayer. It was a story he'd gotten quite good at telling. Attor always attested to it's truth, though many called him a liar for it. They tried to mock him with that name, but Attor wore it with pride.

As time had helped him develop the art of speaking, so too it had worn down Attor's luster. For every tale he brought back of a vicious battle against the rats, or of a personal squabbled settled on the edge of a dagger, Attor's shoulders grew a little heavier. His smile a little slighter. The change was far from instant. Many hadn't noticed anything wrong with the mouse, even as his tales grew more grim, and his demeanor more somber. At some point, Attor forgot to keep telling of heroes, victory and bombastic adventure. He forgot the stories he'd fallen in love with as a youth.

He forgot himself.

At times, usually when Attor's quite drunk, he'll lament the passing of time. He'll lament the passing of the age of heroes, yearning for a return to a simpler era. An era where the Watch made sense- when the world made sense. A time when he would march into a village and be cheered for the band he wore upon his arm instead of shied away from, like he was a leper or a cutthroat. A time when Attor felt like a hero.

But he understands that the world doesn't work that way. He's resigned himself to the cold, unbending truth that the world no longer wants the Redwatch. Westercroft thinks itself above their help, and Glendale claims not to need it. The only place Attor feels at home is in Redfield- where he's more than content to make his final bed.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

"The Watch is old. It's fadin', son, and maybe...maybe we should let it."

Attor Snakeslayer, to his last apprentice

Name:
Attor Snakeslayer

Rank:
Watcher

Appearance:
Mice have many enemies. Their foes come in any number of shapes and sizes. Great and small, from the tiniest shrew upstart to the vicious serpent monsters that tower above them, Mice have many enemies indeed. The greatest of these, though, is one often forgotten. Young mice in particular worry more about rats, weasels and lizards; they don't remember that foe of foes until their whiskers are long and their paws are wrinkled. Only in the final whispers of their years do Mice tend to turn their eye on the enemy that takes more Mice than all the rest.

That enemy, of course, is time.

And Attor knows it well.

Time's claws have worn him down. They have scratched, cut and bitten until that once proud soul is little more than a shadow of his former self, though the mouse would never admit it. His ugly coat, once black as midnight, now lies across his back matted, discolored and dirty. Eyes of unbreakable steel that once stared death in the face with unblinking courage have dulled and quieted, like the edge of an overused blade.

That was what Attor was, in truth: an old sword that'd seen one too many battles.

His right ear is torn; chipped like the brittle edge of a rusted dagger. His whiskers are long and droopy, nearly brushing against the ground when Attor goes to sit.

The marks of war and violence are prevalent across him, to the point where one would be hard-pressed to mark Attor as anything but an old soldier. Scars adorn most of his coat and body, from cuts to poorly healed burns and everything in-between. The worst of these injuries is a long, gnarly tear across his right forearm. A rat's blade tasted deep in his flesh many a moon ago, and Attor has had trouble opening that paw ever since. He was forced to relearn how to use both quill and sword with his left arm, though it's hard to tell he's not a natural lefty given how long ago that was.

Even the Snakeslayer's cloak has not aged well. Once bright like polished bronze, his mentor had remarked that Attor was more weasel than mouse, such was his slipperiness and savagery. Both of those traits have been worn down to the nub, much like the coloring of his cloak. Old bones don't dip and dive as they used to, and Attor finds little satisfaction in bloodshed anymore. His cloak is torn and discolored, covered in rough, self-made patches to keep it from falling apart. He's in dire need of a replacement, though the mouse would rather die than replace the last thing his master ever gave him.

Personality:
Attor Snakeslayer is the best storyteller in all the Kingdoms of Gnaw. Or so he would have you believe. He's had a fondness for stories since he was but a mere boy, sparked first by the tales his father would read to him before bed. Even as he grew older, stronger and wiser, Attor never lost that love, though there were fewer and fewer stories that he hadn't heard before.

So he decided to make his own.

It was easiest to find stories among the Redwatch. They were something of a living legend to Attor. And in their midst he decided to craft his own legend. He wasn't very good at it in the beginning, as all orators, writers and would-be tale-weavers can attest to. But he sharpened his verse and widened his expressions through the years, crafting newer and better tales as he went out and lived them for himself. That was how he came by his title: Snakeslayer. It was a story he'd gotten quite good at telling. Attor always attested to it's truth, though many called him a liar for it.

As time had helped him develop the art of speaking, so too it had worn down Attor's luster. For every tale he brought back of a vicious battle against the rats, or of a personal squabbled settled on the edge of a dagger, Attor's shoulders grew a little heavier. His smile a little slighter. The change was far from instant. Many hadn't noticed anything wrong with the mouse, even as his tales grew more grim, and his demeanor more somber. At some point, Attor forgot to keep telling of heroes, victory and bombastic adventure. He forgot the stories he'd fallen in love with as a youth.

He forgot himself.

At times, usually when Attor's quite drunk, he'll lament the passing of time. He'll lament the passing of the age of heroes, yearning for a return to a simpler era. An era where the Watch made sense- when the world made sense. A time when he would march into a village and be cheered for the band he wore upon his arm instead of shied away from, like he was a leper or a cutthroat. A time when Attor felt like a hero.

But he understands that the world doesn't work that way. He's resigned himself to the cold, unbending truth that the world no longer wants the Redwatch. Westercroft thinks itself above their help, and Glendale claims not to need it. The only place Attor feels at home is in Redfield- where he's more than content to make his final bed.

The Redwatch

I was super into this one the last time around. Definitely have my interest in giving it another wack.

Warhammer 40k: Answering the Call - An Only War/Guard RP

Wasn’t sure if you’d like me to wait to reply to my rescuers before you went or not. But I’m content either way.

Battletech: Anabasis

The titan fell, it's carcass of wrought steel falling away as it's pilot ejected from the lifeless mass. That thundering of distant artillery mixed with the gargling fry of comms chatter like coffee and cream. With the dust clearing, Han finally found time to process everything that had just happened. It was a brief flash in the pan. All over before he could truly realize it.

This was not war as Han knew it.

His wars were controlled. Regimented. Though there was the occasion bump or bruise, Han never felt like he was in any danger back in the Nagelring; expect, perhaps, when his Lyran peers cornered him in the locker room. But he could always rely on the instructors during training. There was a safety net present, just out of sight.

Sitting in the cockpit of that Wolfhound, his head pounding and blood sticking to his gloves, Han was vividly aware that someone had taken the net away.

"Scheisse." He muttered, his chest rising and falling like the boots of a cadet in march-step. Though the immediate area had been cleared of threats, tension was still running through every muscle, tendon and joint. Try as he might, Han couldn't relax. Was he panicking? Is this what a panic attack felt like?

'Preposterous.' The boy growled in the depths of his mind. 'Bjornsons. Don't. Panic.'

Plebeians panicked. Cowards and greenhorns panicked. Civilians and the unworthy.

Noblemen did not panic. They were better than that- better than their baser fears. Han didn't hear fear in Captain Hart's voice over the comms link. Even the other cadets of the lance appeared to be holding their cool better than he. It was unbecoming of him. Unbecoming of a man of his status.

It was a fucking embarrassment to his very name.

Han squeezed his controls tight enough to threaten the circulation in his hands. He deliberately cut off his own breath, fighting to gain control over his own flesh and blood. He wouldn't succumb to this. Han carried the weight of his House's defamed name on his very shoulders, and he would not take part in dragging it through the mud. Han would not be like his father.

Willpower and time allowed him to wrestle control back. His breathing slowed, steady and rhythmic. Air filled his lungs and exited to the regimented count of one, two, three- one, two three. Each had to be delivered deliberately. Han let his fingers drop away from the throttle and sidestick, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his sweat-soaked gloves. Children cried. He was no child. This was unacceptable.

"Ich-" He began over the radio, his voice catching. His tongue had slipped, falling back into his more familiar German in the moment. Just one more of a dozen mistakes Han had made in a matter of minutes.

"Pardon. I'll lead the push to the dropship, if you'd have me, captain." The boy's voice lacked the usual overwhelming confidence his lancemates might've become accustomed to over their short time together. It couldn't quite be described as shaky, but it was getting there.

His teeth sinking into his lower lip, Bjornson pushed down on the throttle, allowing his Wolfhound to begin it's advance toward the dropship. It loomed high above even the Olympic figure of the mech, marking it as truly colossal in size. "My probe is...offline. I would not put full trust in your instruments without it's protection in place." Han warned, the shame on his face thankfully hidden from view.

This had not been the glorious introduction to combat that Han had so often dreamed of.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

The titan fell, it's carcass of wrought steel falling away as it's pilot ejected from the lifeless mass. That thundering of distant artillery mixed with the gargling fry of comms chatter like coffee and cream. With the dust clearing, Han finally found time to process everything that had just happened. It was a brief flash in the pan. All over before he could truly realize it.

This was not war as Han knew it.

His wars were controlled. Regimented. Though there was the occasion bump or bruise, Han never felt like he was in any danger back in the Nagelring; expect, perhaps, when his Lyran peers cornered him in the locker room. But he could always rely on the instructors during training. There was a safety net present, just out of sight.

Sitting in the cockpit of that Wolfhound, his head pounding and blood sticking to his gloves, Han was vividly aware that someone had taken the net away.

"Scheisse." He muttered, his chest rising and falling like the boots of a cadet in march-step. Though the immediate area had been cleared of threats, tension was still running through every muscle, tendon and joint. Try as he might, Han couldn't relax. Was he panicking? Is this what a panic attack felt like?

'Preposterous.' The boy growled in the depths of his mind. 'Bjornsons. Don't. Panic.'

Plebeians panicked. Cowards and greenhorns panicked. Civilians and the unworthy.

Noblemen did not panic. They were better than that- better than their baser fears. Han didn't hear fear in Captain Hart's voice over the comms link. Even the other cadets of the lance appeared to be holding their cool better than he. It was unbecoming of him. Unbecoming of a man of his status.

It was a fucking embarrassment to his very name.

Han squeezed his controls tight enough to threaten the circulation in his hands. He deliberately cut off his own breath, fighting to gain control over his own flesh and blood. He wouldn't succumb to this. Han carried the weight of his House's defamed name on his very shoulders, and he would not take part in dragging it through the mud. Han would not be like his father.

Willpower and time allowed him to wrestle control back. His breathing slowed, steady and rhythmic. Air filled his lungs and exited to the regimented count of one, two, three- one, two three. Each had to be delivered deliberately. Han let his fingers drop away from the throttle and sidestick, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his sweat-soaked gloves. Children cried. He was no child. This was unacceptable.

"Ich-" He began over the radio, his voice catching. His tongue had slipped, falling back into his more familiar German in the moment. Just one more of a dozen mistakes Han had made in a matter of minutes.

"Pardon. I'll lead the push to the dropship, if you'd have me, captain." The boy's voice lacked the usual overwhelming confidence his lancemates might've become accustomed to over their short time together. It couldn't quite be described as shaky, but it was getting there.

His teeth sinking into his lower lip, Bjornson pushed down on the throttle, allowing his Wolfhound to begin it's advance toward the dropship. It loomed high above even the Olympic figure of the mech, marking it as truly colossal in size. "My probe is...offline. I would not put full trust in your instruments without it's protection in place." Han warned, the shame on his face thankfully hidden from view.

This had not been the glorious introduction to combat that Han had so often dreamed of.

No Turning Back - Surving the Abyss

Just a heads up: I'll be on vacation for the next week or so. Won't be able to reply until I'm back; apologies for the inconvenience.

- Squad 914: Beyond - Rebooted

Just a heads up: I'll be on vacation for the next week or so. Won't be able to reply until I'm back; apologies for the inconvenience.