Prelude:
Skandian Dawn
A lone MechWarrior sits atop a lonely hill overlooking the Spaceport of Olaus, empty fields of sparse grass and rocks covering the area outside the city as far as they eyes can see. A venerable 'mech stands by his side, casting an ever shrinking shadow across the hillsides of Skandia II. From the surface, Skandia's sun appears like a small yellow, not much smaller than the star that once nourished and gave life to humans on Terra, but it's light is much more faint, and the dawns on Skandia 2 cast a low orange hue over the planet for hours before the dim light finally illuminates the surface's day side. Today is the pilot's last day for the foreseeable future when he can see the dawn in it's full glory, so he takes in the sight as the distant rumble of a dropship's engines from the starport finally reaches him. The stars of the city in the distance glimmer like little fires, dimming out as the time passes and the sun's light overpowers them.
By the time the street lights are turned off, he's already in his mech, a battle-scarred Centurion, travelling at a jogging pace towards the starport. He is in no hurry, as the new recruits are still just arriving and getting vetted by Mimir for any warning signs, before being taken to the recruitment office. Still, having spent the past few months on Skandia, he's never seen this many Leoapards land and take off from the starport in a single day, not to mention in just one morning. And that's without even taking into consideration the several spherical shapes that tower in the far corner of the port: the larger dropships that have been gathering the forces of the newly formed republic, Union classes that have probably served several different nations states over their long history. Using the zoom in his cockpit to observe these steel giants from far away, he can see that the paint is still new and drying on most, the insignia of the Rasalhague Republic smeared in places. Others still bear the Draconis Combine's insignias, forces from the neighbouring state assisting in the Ronin War and helping the Republic get on it's feet.
By the time he passes through the large gates and trods past the Dragon standing guard at the gate with an entourage of support infantry, the first of the Unions have launched. Staring the massive ship rise into the air with a plume of smoke that lasts for several minutes after the ship's become nothing more than the shining light of it's lifting engines in the distance, he throttles down the Centurion to let a massive cargo vehicle pass in front, carrying several mechs on it's back that are covered by several layers of tarp to hide their types. His mech is tall and easily towers over the cargo vehicle, but the mechs it carries dwarf even his own 'mech: someone is going to be on the receiving end of a Lance of Assault Mechs. All across the starport, similar activity takes place as the hustling and bustling of a normal military base and a starport gets combined into a cacaphonic melody of alerts blaring from loudspeakers, the engines of vehicles, mechs and AeroSpace fighters whooshing overhead merging into one concert of military organization. The colors are a blur: everything is tinted a deep brownish orange from the rising sun, but the fresh coats of blue and white of Rasalhague are mixed with the dulled out reds of the Draconis Combine. There's even a few blinding whites, ComStar operatives who are overseeing the delicate operations patented technology. It brings back memories of old times, times of war when the hustle and bustle meant that the enemy was already dropping lances right on top of their heads, or they were about to do the same to their enemies.
At least the klaxons aren't blaring this time.
He makes slow progress through the starport, giving way to the many cargo trucks loaded with palettes of ammunition for SRMs and LRMs, crates filled with spare parts and several more convoys of mechs covered by tarp. A few lances of Light and medium Mechs pass him by during the short trip; he's never seen so many Locusts and Wasps before with a fresh coat of paint. A lance of Dragons also waddles past his mech on the way towards the Draconis marked Union. By the time he reaches the end of the runways, the amount of different types of mechs and camos he's seen are probably contending for a top spot over his long career. He even saw several mechs with insignias he only abrely recognized: mercs, fueling up and making final preparations before joining the war party. But there's a good reason for all these mechs and armanents being loaded up and taking off: the Republic and the Dominion are going to war, this time together.
Old warriors of the combine who refused to leave Rasalhague space have taken up arms and are trying to smother the newborn nation before it has a chance to mature and become a great power of the Inner Sphere. These so called "Ronins" have made a serious ruckus on Orestes. For the past month forces have been assembling on Skandia, and they are finally heading out to kick these rebellious elements off of the planet and free the Republic of these warriors who don't realize that Fourth Succession War is over. Of course, such assaults are happening all across the republic, but Skandia is the only planet assembling two forces at once, one of which is going to have a piece of it commanded by him.
The air outside the mech is cold, and it stings his skin after leaving the warm cockpit. There are several barracks lined up on the far end of the runways, along with administration buildings. One of the leopards taxis up besides him into one of the parking spots besides the large complex, workers signalling with batons to the pilot, just like they used to back in the golden days of aviation. When so many planes and drophips are landing and taxiing, nobody is willing to take the risk that a software malfunction can cause an accident worth millions, if not billions of C-Bills. As the rear lamp lowers, several lines of of men and women begin to unload, most of them wearing a variation of Draconis or Lyran military fatigues, but he recognises some Davion uniforms as well as a few that he doesn't know the origins of. "At least no Capellans this time..."
The line of cadets carrying rucksacks disappears into one of the barracks, and are replaced with a crowd of technicians and starport pilots who begin to take out the seats and cargo from the back of the Leopard, whilst a different group is already loading up a lance of Panthers and Javelin's into the recently freed mechbays. Not a minute wasted today, it seems. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, his hand finally free of the shakyness he's experienced this whole morning as he enjoys the sweet embrace of Nicotine. He briefly wonders if the addiction will kill him before one of the new recruits will, but by the time he finishes his mind is already on other things. The Leopard has been loaded too, and with nothing else to watch for amusement, he snuffs out the cigarette butt against the concrete paving and walks inside the barracks.
The new recruits are all here for the same job: mercs, hired to serve the Republic, units that are meant to be low-cost solutions to the military's many growing pains. Especially now, whilst the Ronins are running around and causing havoc, the KungsArmé doesn't have the capacity to be everywhere at once, and raising all the regiments that they'd need would bankrupt the Republic before it could celebrate it's first anniversary of freedom in centuries. Men and women from all across the Inner Sphere have made their way to Skandia to answer the call to arms: a chance at a new life in a new nation, the perfect chance for those looking for an adventure or a fresh beginning away from all the powers they are already familiar with. Of course, only some of them will be chosen; even fewer of those will be serving directly under him. Giving the mechwarriors lining the corridors and clutching their rucksacks one more look, he heads upstairs to the offices where he has papers of his own to fill out before this new life can begin.
A few hours of unpleasant medical exams, signings and briefings later, he is outside once more. The orange hue of the early morning has disappeared, but the bustle of the starport has barely died down. Some of the dropships have left, and most of the larger elements have already left planetside, but the real logistic nightmare of the support companies has only just started. Thankfully, his own ship had been fueled and resupplied days prior: he received a mission closeby that would test his new MechWarriors before the rest of the KungsArmé's recruits had a chance to pull the trigger on their newly painted mechs in the fight against any Ronin forces. Probably for the better: he didnt give much of a chance to his, or anyone else's recruits if they had to fight the veteran warriors who refused to leave Republic Space. No, he was going the opposite way from Orestes, and dealing with a matter significantly less important, but no less dangerous. He was resupplied so early so that their low priority objectives wouldn't interfere on this cruicial day with the larger force's objectives. It all made sense, but at the end of the day he was just happy he didn't have to wait for someone in this chaos to come fuel him up.
Taking the opportunity of another Leopard pulling up close to the barracks, he climbed back inside his Centurion and after a brief exchange with the pilot, and reminiscing with them about some nostalgic memories when it turned out they were also from New Oslo, he managed to hitch a ride in the back of the shuttle. It wasn't long before they were already taking off with a fresh load of supplies and towards the armada in orbit. From the feed of exterior cameras he could see the myriad black dots that were all DropShips loaded with mechs and regular forces, as well as undoubtedly a few WarShips that would ensure the assault didn't meet a gruesome end. One of those black dots would soon become his home, and the home of his new company. He hadn't decided on a name yet, and he had until the end of the day to tell Republic officials, so he figured he's wait on that a little more.
No doubt in a few hours of time the lucky few who get assigned to him will be taking the same ride as him, looking at the same sky and wondering which ship will be theirs. When they'll arrive, he'll have the time to figure out the little details like a name and a title for this new operation, but for now he wanted to take stock of what they were given as well as get a look over his new DropShip.
Suffice to say, reality was not what he expected. Union classes are notorious for bad crew accommodations, and he was ready to see a cramped corridor when he entered, but instead he was met with a different sight: the rusted and patched hull of a truly ancient Black Eagle looked back at him as his shuttle approached, a vessel that had not been produced since before even the Star League came into existence; a design from a time when the Terran Hegemony waged endless war with the other powers of the Inner Sphere. How one of these ancient beasts survived and got into the hands of the Republic were questions he didn't even dare to ask: some of the Union classes he served upon were centuries old as well, but this was something else. If they had been given this, it must've meant that even the most common Dropships were in too high of a demand to give away. He could only imagine what his fellow commanders of unofficial Republic merc companies received as a vessel. Then again, he couldn't complain; it was better than receiving a Leopard and then being sent off to war. Still, he knew that he'd have plenty to do before he'd have his first briefing with his new pilots in a few hours. He just hoped the mechs the Republic gave them were of a never vintage that the ship: if he was given a lance of Mackies, he promised himself that he'd throw himself out the first airlock. If he could find one by himself on such an unfamiliar ship. Sighing softly, he turned away from the screens and began to prepare himself for transfer to his new vessel, and began punching in the new authentication codes into his aged Centurion's command console. "Ulrik... what did you get yourself into this time. I though this was the sort of thing that made you quite the military for good..." The reflection in the console's back screen didn't answer, and after waiting for a few seconds for an answer that wouldn't come, he'd replace it with a view of diagnostics. It was time to get ready for a new life of war.
Letter Bee
Fish of Oblivion
AndyC
Alby47
Bartimaeus
