Pilatus

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Jonathan McCord

It didn’t take him long to pick up the trail. Like most outfits, it was a single file line to break up the mark of their prints in the Espian dirt, hide their numbers and make identification harder for scouts. Unlike ground vehicles with non-directional tires or tracks however, Battlemechs could never disguise which direction they were traveling. Jon’s eyes constantly scanned the expansive glass of the cockpit. Even though the territory north of Nui Awa wasn’t completely indian country, he regularly zig-zagged in his path over the Crimson Fists’ trail and kept his torso moving to keep his cockpit from being a steady target for an idling Manticore or Bulldog tucked into a treeline that might want to get fresh. The grassy plains thumped gently under Ossie’s full stride and the mountain range steadily filled the horizon in front of him. The trail ahead was familiar territory and good hunting ground. Plenty of cover and lots of snow and ice to keep the guns cool. He knew the Knights were going to catch them first, but what that encounter would look like when he got there wasn’t a guarantee and an exfil over the same open country, should they not be successful, was going to be a real shitty deal. He really wanted a cigarette.

As the terrain slowly elevated and shifted from soft plains grass to juts of sharp rock, he eased into a trot as the profile of the Fists’ trail diverged and they stopped for a moment. Ossie’s angular form rotated slowly as it hovered like a bloodhound at the conflagration that had apparently taken place prior to the ascent. Jon’s glance narrowed and he quietly named off the machines. “Firestarter…” The light mech's jaunty little legs took the lead position. “Crusader… Hunchback” The mediums fanned out on opposing sides. Footpad identification was standard training. Somewhere he had a very worn TDF issued stack of playing cards that had helped commit the images to memory over a multitude of poker games. “Whammer…” His brow arched a bit as another set emerged that hadn’t been in the datapad briefing. “...And a Panther” He looked around a bit further for a moment, pulling himself up in the straps to study the ground. “Why did you stop?” His eyes began to carefully follow the trail of the Warhammer as it appeared to turn and double back towards Nui Awa. Shit.. His eyes followed the tracks as they led away. The thought of pursuit crossed his mind, but he kept looking for another clue as to why the lance had stopped.

The rendezvous had been quick for sure, not even long enough to fully settle the tracks and just enough for the ‘Hammer to divert and for another to join in as a sub. Jon’s lips curled a bit. The birdlike prints of a Catapult were unmistakable against the muddy rock, joining in from the west. His eyes followed up the mountain as the lance rejoined in file and proceeded up the pass. Losing a Warhammer but gaining a Catty and a Panther, wasn’t exactly a break in their favor, however in the narrow lanes of the peak it would be harder for the lights to stretch their legs and for the ‘Cat to keep a sensor lock. The missile carrier instantly made him think about Marit first, but he knew at least two of the Knights’ mechs had jump jets. He settled back and throttled up; the machine beneath him leaning into the run, almost sensing the conclusion of the pursuit through his thoughts in the neurohelmet. He knew the Fists weren’t familiar with the pass as he was and would take the regular route before they risked a fall, but a few careful steps and he could save some time and meet them with a clear shot at their flank. He glanced up at the regular gray soup of Espian clouds and then at the time as he started the ascent. A break in weather could give him a glimmer of sunlight to his back, but he prepared himself to come upon the worst as he moved up the trail.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Merry-Go-Round

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra.” Takka grumbled. He again ran his gloved hands up and down his arms and watched his breath dissipate in front of him. Even though he was triple layered through extra gloves and jacket over his regular crewman’s fatigues, it was freezing inside the Merry-Go-Round. He fidgeted in his seat yet again trying to create even the slightest modicum of heat from friction. After they had positioned the Von Luckner and shut down, the lingering heat from the tank’s environmental controls hadn’t lasted long. Aroxy was initially concerned about the prospect of their wide and fresh seventy-five ton tracks being visible, but the snow and the wind through the pass, the same that now gripped them in a shell of ice, had done a fair enough job of covering them up. The backup batteries kept only the most basic of systems alive within the tank’s hull and he checked the readouts between glances up through the periscope.

“Speaking of witches, I hope the main gun fires.” Ansel quipped.

“Cap let the dragon lady have her way with Merry,” Takka continued through chattering teeth though he defiantly rubbed the control column with a gloved hand. “I can tell she feels violated.”

“She should be good and angry then.” Helma chimed in from the auxiliary fire controls. Like the others, save for Aroxy, she hugged herself through multiple layers of heavy fatigues, lowering her helmeted head down into her collar.

“If yall don’t shut up, I’m gonna make you sit outside.” Aroxy growled. He placed his hand on the tank’s hull, feeling as much as listening through his own cold breaths and the howl of the wind outside. Moments passed again in silence until he felt the slightest tremor through the cold steel. The sensation in his fingertips grew until he was sure of the familiar march of battlemechs. “They’re comin, eyes up.’” He wasn’t in the mood for the crew's regular mischief today. The dynamic was much simpler now: kill the enemy, with prejudice. Not the desperation of the stockpile raid or the confused shooting gallery of the dam defense. The mountain pass wasn’t tank country, but was most definitely ambush country and he aimed to even the score for Merry’s drive gear getting mangled the last time they met the Fists.

Right on cue, the Firestarter emerged through howling sheets of gray and white with the lumbering silhouettes of its cohorts joining in shortly behind as well as another light mech, a Panther.

“Ohh, here kitty-kitty.” Takka grimaced at the additional mech in the lineup and sat up in his seat completely forgetting about the cold and looking through the reticle for the main gun as the unknowing figure of the slender mech passed through the elevation and range hash marks. They were still too far out for a high percentage shot, but lobbing a shell wasn’t out of the question.

“Missiles. Stream fire.” Aroxy said. He didn’t have to specify which missiles and Helma was ready by the secondary fire controls. “HE in the barrel.” Ansel nodded. Everyone understood. The Captain wasn’t going to waste a precious AP round on a lobbed shot, but they were most definitely going to send one down range. All that needed to happen now was for Daschke to spring the trap.

“No Warhammer?” Helma said, squinting through her own narrow glass on top of the hull.

“No.” Aroxy replied stoically. Even the single word carried a note of unspoken concern, but it was too late to worry about it.

“They haven’t spotted our position yet?” Ansel asked. Being the only one without a view outside, he was left to his imagination at what the others were seeing. Such was the life of a loader.

Aroxy watched as the Firestarter drew ever closer to Ramrod. He shook his head a bit. If nothing else, she had nerve. “They’re gonna get an education in about ten seconds.”

The furor started with a cloud of snow and light erupting from Susser Todd’s position. The heat emanating off of the mech’s opening volley instantly turned the snow around its hot barrels into steam as the beams found purchase into the utterly stunned light mech before it. Aroxy bit his lip as a flight of LRMs came sailing overhead from the other members of the Knights’ lance, not remembering to give their scout a chance to train her TAG beam or land a NARC beacon. Despite this, there were good hits and there also was also a sudden noticeable rise in temperature within the Von Luckner’s hull as the crew heard the melee begin. This ranged fighting was not their strength, but Aroxy remembered how the Fists’ had foolishly overlooked the Merry-Go-Round during their last engagement. As Alleycat’s Raven sprung to life seemingly out of nowhere, he saw the faint RF signal light for her TAG beacon light up among the basic sensors in front of him. What was even better, was watching her NARC beacon seek and angrily take hold of the Firestarter. It was almost a poetic reversal of their first encounter.

“Reactor, now!” Aroxy barked. Takka’s thumb had been hovering over the large starter button and the tank’s reactor ignited almost as soon as the order was in the air. The full array of systems came online just as he shouted: “Fire!”

Helma’s LRMs roared out of the launcher in a processional line or “stream” rather than taking flight as a singular cloud. The launch setting was preferred when taking on large, slow moving targets like battlemechs as the line of missiles more or less fell in a cascading column towards a mech’s center mass, pounding into the same point repeatedly rather than spreading over the whole of the target’s armor. Conversely, smaller vehicles or agile mechs could more easily dodge the volley.

Aroxy’s eyes immediately shifted to the Hunchback, watching the stunned surprise of its pilot translate through the sudden hesitation and confusion in its step. It was still out of range, but he knew the pilot would more than likely fire out of reaction at what was directly in front of it before taking the time to realize the scope of the ambush. The “boombox” on the medium mech’s shoulder looked like the side of a barn through the periscope, nearly full broadside, but still a difficult shot at distance even for an experienced AC20 gunner. However, Daschke was the tip of the spear and they needed to give her a chance to continue to press the attack. “Takka! Hit that son of a bitch right in the ‘box.”

“On it!” Takka answered. Again the action came nearly in sync with the words. The turret’s drive gear whirred, rotating the barrel towards the Hunchback just as the Firestarter took another pelting of LRMs. The crew were thinking and moving as trained- as one. He could hear the LRM pod reloading and instinctively knew Helma would fire again just as soon as the cycle finished. Takka seemed to be happily talking to himself as the Merry-Go-Round’s gun hovered over the Hunchback and fidgeted vertically as Takka adjusted for the range and wind. “This one’s goin’ downtown!” He cackled and stomped the pedal. The tank recoiled from the shot, shaking off a cloud of snow that had settled on the hull as the sound of the AC20 billowed through the Hiyan-Chia Pass.

“HOLY SHIT!” Takka and Helma said the words simultaneously.

The shell howled out of the barrel like a banshee with such velocity that the drifting snow bands curled and whipped behind it in ghostly wisps. It streaked over the chasm and just clipped the top of the Hunchback’s main gun enough to draw a visible spark along the leading edge of the weapon before it angrily carried on over the far distant chasm behind the Fists’ lance and buried itself in the side of the mountain in a great plume of orange fire that caused a wave of snow to fall over the impact.

“Fucking black magic bitch!” Takka cursed. He frantically began adjusting the sights to compensate for the stunningly noticeable increase in muzzle velocity.

“You fucking missed!” Helma howled.

“I wasn’t expecting it to shoot that hard!”

“Load AP” Aroxy barked. “Probably don’t need to put so much arc on it, Takka.” He looked hard through the periscope. While he appreciated the newfound ferocity in Merry’s main weapon, he wished they’d had time for a few test shots to allow Takka to adjust to the changes. It was like handing their cleanup hitter a new bat when the bases were loaded. “That was your practice swing, next one needs to be in the bleachers.” He said as Ansel hurriedly ejected the spent casing and began loading an AP round. “AP’s gonna be heavier, down angle some more.”

“I got it ‘Cap,” Takka tilted his head up to press his eyes harder into the rangefinder while his hands made a few more small corrections into the fire control. “Just not used to shooting a large laser, I’m a class twenty gunner.”

What Are You Listening To?

Advice for "simple" racing mechanics in an rp

I have thought about this for a long time and could never really think of a way to make it work. It either becomes a tedious game of dice and stats or it goes nowhere. There's just no way to effectively make racing the centerpiece of an interactive story- at least not one that I found appealing as someone who follows a lot of racing.

Judging by the replies and the system you have in mind, it seems like you are looking for something maybe closer to car combat which may work with what you have put together. Depending on what you want in your story, racing has a lot of variables: the weather, track temp, driver ability/fatigue, tire performance, car type. The list goes on and on and that is what always kept me from really considering it. Once you start putting stats on one thing, it just leads to another.

The best advice I could give is that you'd have to be fairly discerning in your recruiting and then see how much dice the players are interested in before you invest more time. Depending on the interest you get, go from there. Some people are going to want to write more and some are going to want to roll more. The only thing that ever really felt "fair" to me was to roll for the true variables in any race: the weather, caution flags and mechanical failures. There are others, but those apply no matter the discipline. To determine a "winner" and assuming most drivers/cars are somewhat evenly balanced you could let the players just roll maybe three times (race start, halfway point and finish) for who has position and then let the writing take it up from there.

It's a rabbit hole for sure, so good luck to you.

-P

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Reya Wyatt

Reya had to turn her head away from the holovid. Even before the most gruesome clips aired, she knew where it was leading. Instantly she was reminded of when she’d gone with the raiding party to the supply depot and seen firsthand what the ‘Boys had done to the NPDRE defenders. That was at least a fight among soldiers, no matter how outmatched the sides might have been, however she could vividly remember the blood splatter and twisted forms of those who had tried to oppose them. It didn’t take a lot for her mind to build a ghastly mental picture of what happened to the townspeople. Like them, she’d had to run for her life before and visualizing herself as one of them was enough to make her stomach lurch to the point where she thought she was going to be sick. Women and children mowed down and trod over like insects no different than when she had grabbed up Sunny and ran for it. They hadn’t even been able to save Diego and the thought of his innocent face still cut her heart to the core the same way every single time.

Never had she seen the Colonel so visibly upset and it reminded her of his actual nature as a fighting man and not so much the fatherly-type he’d sort of become in the last few weeks of their desperation. She was a little bit afraid to look at him for fear of perhaps doing something to make the situation worse by not being able to stomach what was propagated against the Knights. Ironically it reminded her of being a child when her father was particularly upset, so she mostly stood behind Tarak and hid herself from his gaze. The Mechwarrior’s stance was firm with no sign of apprehension without even a question. It was what she liked about him most. It gave her some strength and she took a breath and stood a little straighter holding on to his arm at the elbow. Save for maybe Raven, there was something about the rest of them she could never understand about their ability, for the most part, to remove the humanity from a situation. She knew they probably felt it, hopefully, even Ziska, but the only emotions she could observe and sense were directed at being framed whereas she could only see the people in the video.

Then came the news of her role in the plan. A part of her wished so badly not to hear her name. Just when she was getting back into doing what she was best at, she would be pulled away again and the assignment gave her an uneasy and foreboding feeling that she hadn’t expected. She was comfortable representing the Knights to just about anyone and understood the supreme level of trust the Colonel was placing on her shoulders; however, Comstar was never an audience she had envisioned. Images of cloaked figures, ritual incantations and a feigned technological theocracy flashed through her mind along with how universally just about everyone she’d ever met couldn’t stand them. At least like the, “holy Blake”, she was an engineer and maybe that would count for something in their eyes, but she doubted it. She let out a small sigh and looked down at her dirty ensemble realizing she’d have to get cleaned up again in a hurry. Sensing Tarak’s gaze she glanced up at him, not really feeling anything from Ingrid’s pontifications and knowing he didn’t really either. The Colonel’s words ran through her mind. It was going to be an ugly fight. A brawl against murderers.

She touched his face and looked at him, eye to eye. “Come back with your shield, or on it.”

@Th3King0fChaos

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Jonathan McCord

At the outset of the coup, Jon knew his relationship with the Crimson Fists was destined to go only a very few ways and after seeing the holovid footage and the grandstanding thereafter he was even more satisfied with his decision to ignore their invitations and keep that particular path mostly closed. Since the beginning, he afforded them respect as soldiers and they seemed to respond in equal measure despite his loyalty to Cassandra. Merc life wasn’t often glamorous. Sometimes you held the whip and sometimes you held the post. He’d been on both sides of the equation and understood the roles could reverse rapidly- as the Green Knights unfortunately found out. Outnumbered more than ten to one, he made peace with and reasoned if he ever had to throw down with the Fists, they at least weren’t going to get the jump on him the same way and he was going to go to Valhalla hauling brass like no one they’d ever seen. His face was its regular stoic mask as the thoughts passed. When he first considered his relationship with the other merc squad, it was also under the conclusion that he was dealing with a professional adversary, and they certainly were, however the holovid “production” that had been broadcast on endless loop all morning indicated they were something else as well.

It didn’t make a lot of sense and it felt like something to which he wasn’t privy, had apparently made Espia very personal between the Fists and the Knights for them to commit to action that just seemed… desperate. He shook his head and rubbed the stubble on his chin as Cassandra’s underlings moved about her office level bringing items to her attention and then scurrying away on some new errand. He normally didn’t play these scenarios out in his head. Politics, espionage and propaganda were not his wheelhouse. Maybe he had overestimated them, both in projection and principles. The thought continued to gnaw at him. A side that was “winning” didn’t need to stage a frame-up against a merc company that barely had a complete lance. He knew if he had their resources, he could have tracked down the Knights long ago, as he’d personally demonstrated, and over a long enough timeline, even if the Fists’ couldn’t force a conclusive battle, attrition would favor the greater force if the Knights couldn’t secure a way off-planet. He shook his head a bit again, slower and more contemplative before dismissing the whole mental exercise. He wasn’t sure about any of it and it didn’t matter. The die was cast and the final path was becoming much more clear.

A soldier was something of a medium between the endpoints of policeman and criminal. Decisions had to be made, often in precious seconds that could mean self-preservation or death. To become judge, jury and executioner, or murderer, over and over. A warrior made peace with that as he’d done his whole life as a fighter. He’d seen innocent people killed before, but never flagrantly or on camera for the purpose of deception. Killing people was hard, or it was supposed to be for a man that kept himself centered in the balance. Having served in the infantry, he recognized being in a machine took an element of the personal out of the equation, but he told himself, in his soul, when it got too easy to pull the trigger that it would be time to stop. A still fresh image of the routed Heavenly Sword fighters flashed through his memory. Defeated men shockingly broken in body and spirit all at once- but they’d at least had the choice to put their faith on the line in the contest… then he again thought about the footage from the holovid, how there was even a certain flair about the presentation of the Firestarter as it scorched over unsuspecting people running for their lives.

“Jonathan, are you alright?” Cassandra’s voice asked poignantly.

Though his face was neutral, Jon noticed he was gripping one arm of the chair so hard the fabric cracked under his grip, fraying it from the polished brass buttons that ornately held it. She looked at him from behind her desk, over the rim of her glasses. “Yeah, sorry.”

Cassandra blinked, “It’s fine, we’ll get another one.”

She had summoned him to her office building in North Nui Awa not long after he’d just made it in the night before. Caesar finished up the post-op and reload and he headed back out- meaning he’d only just missed the Crimson Fists’ lance. The multitude of scenarios for that encounter played in his head several times as well. Cassandra pushed a datapad across her desk that Jon knew was intended for his eyes only without her having to say a word. She had a look and an aura about her that was different than any other time he’d seen her before. A vengeful energy, like an ancient witch delivering the dispatch of a wraith. A role he accepted as he took the pad also without having to speak.

“This intelligence comes from Colonel Wayne and his sources; some of our people in the field have also verified it.”

Jon’s glanced narrowed over the text and images as they scrolled under his thumb. “I know this pass.” The projected route of the Crimson Fists’ criminal lance was practically Jon’s backyard, traversing much of the territory still held by Cassandra and AVC properties. It was like handing a fugitive’s torn shirt-sleeve to a bloodhound. He could feel his pulse quicken slightly as he visualized the pursuit.

“Colonel Wayne’s forces will be there first in waiting, but you should be able to catch them not long after they find one another. I’m going to be taking a helicopter to the capital. I still have a good relationship with our Precentor. He’s a level man, not a fanatic. He will listen.” She rose and donned a pair of exquisite black leather gloves and collected an equally posh matching purse from behind the desk. Jon stood as another one her staff quickly appeared and brushed by him, placing what looked like a brand new jacket on her shoulders. She came around the desk, stopping briefly to appraise him. Her fingers straightened the worn AVC logo on the hooded sweatshirt she’d given him months ago and evened out the drawstrings. “Go there, kill them.” The words felt new and sharp. This was no longer a protection detail for the company. The players for Espia’s future were putting their cards down and now she was going to place her own.

“Yes ma’am.”

She looked briefly like she wanted to say something else, but stepped away and was gone.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Reya Wyatt

All of the mechs had a certain personality about them, particularly when broken down to their base components, whether it was a large laser, a missile rack or the delicate arrangement of systems around the gyro designed to interpret the pilot’s sense of balance. Ziska’s Raven still had a sleek “newness” about it despite how ruggedly she treated it while Ingrid’s Ostroc was old and grumpy and seemed to hate everything, including basic maintenance. Both Hawk’s had a similar feel almost like they were brothers. They were soldier’s mechs, agreeable and made to be serviced. They suited Tarak and Raven respectively. Marit’s Archer was similar with a likewise “male” presence that fit its casual nickname, but bigger and stout to carry its payload on the shoulders. At some point in her time with the Knights’ Reya had seen the inner workings of each of them and knew their quirks, however there was one that remained. One she hadn’t managed to get her hands on and the curiosity pecked at the back of her mind for a long time. Now that they were free from the caves and in semi-proper facilities with morale higher than it had been in weeks, it was to see if Aroxy would acquiesce.

Unlike the battlemechs, the Von Luckner was pure machine. Grease, gears and guts fitted together on a Star League assembly line. The complex systems she was used to seeing of feeding ammo and maintaining balance were absent- Even the original autoloader had been removed. The thick aroma of diesel from the backup engine permeated everything inside the turret along with the chemical smell of spent ammunition and the somewhat colorful aroma of the regular crew. However, none of this bothered Reya in the slightest. Long ago she could remember seeing some passing article about “hot rod culture” and how the denizens of that hobby threw away their disposable income souping up land vehicles. The idea didn’t make a lot of sense at the time, but as soon as she stepped down through the hatch and had a look around, it was the first thing that came to mind. Her smile was wide and it unexpectedly felt like coming back to the familiar. She wasn’t a soldier or a spy, she was an engineer. This was correct. Her mind soaked in the machine. The turret was past-due for an overhaul, particularly after the last action and she was going to make sure the next round out of the barrel departed at no less than factory velocity, maybe even a little more.

Tarak’s gifted stereo blasted overhead. In the open air, against the competing noises of the scrapyard, she could turn up the volume much louder than in the caves, loud enough to be heard with the tank’s hatch open. It was warm down in the hull of the machine and her lips mouthed the lyrics as she worked: You gave me fortune, you gave me fame… You gave me power in your god’s name…. Black soot from the main gun smudged her arms and she attempted to carefully wipe away a bead of sweat with the back of her wrist. Their new hosts had provided a proper technician’s coveralls, albeit large, so she didn’t have to ruin any more of her clothes with stains and snags though she had rolled and tied the top half at her waist to give herself more freedom of movement leaving her upper body covered by a black sports bra. Her hair, pulled up in a ponytail, brushed against her back feeling as weighty and laden with perspiration and grime as the rest of her exposed skin, but it was fine. Things were getting better. They were going to get Lena back and they were going to link up with the FPA and they were going to put their enemies in the ground. Not to mention they now had a nuclear warhead. The thoughts were energizing and she nodded to herself that the tides were rapidly beginning to turn.

Someone shut off the music instantly drawing a momentary arched eyebrow of irritation, however the unexpected silence that followed drew her face up towards the hatch in a narrowed glance.

“Meetin’s on sugar-tits.” Takka’s rugged visage popped over the edge of the hatch blotting out the otherwise blue sky above.

Reya stared back blankly at the boney face grinning towards her from above. He offered a slimy hand to help her up the ladder, but she handed him a wrench instead and climbed out.

The outside air felt great, but instantly she recognized the sudden tension in the air and immediately looked first for Sunny, finding some relief when she saw her scurrying across the yard away from a gathering at a holovid.

“Hope ‘Cap knew what he was doin’, lettin’ you service the gun.” Takka said teasingly enough though there was a hint of a jab in the comment.

“Just worry about hitting what you’re aiming at.” Reya replied. She pulled off the spent pair of black rubber gloves she’d been wearing and stuffed them in Takka’s chest before wiping away a smudge she could feel on the side of her face and looking for Tarak.

Still holding the wrench, Takka accepted the gloves with toothy chuckle and eased his gaze down Reya’s back while her glance turned toward the Phoenix Hawk. “Some things are hard to miss.”

Reya shook her head and rolled her eyes. Whatever this was about, she wouldn’t mind a small break to stretch her legs a bit and get some fresh air. Another walk, even a short stroll around the mechbays would be perfect. She looked at Tarak for a moment while he didn't notice her, watching him work. As much as she loved Sunny, she hadn’t realized how much she needed some semblance of normal adult interaction that wasn't heavy drinking or military talk. It was almost therapeutic. “What’s going on?”

@Th3King0fChaos

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Jonathan McCord

As it had on several occasions, Jon’s Marauder was the first machine on the field and the last to leave. He watched the Knights moving out, headed to their new location in the scrapyard, but there was no call for him to follow. Marit’s Archer disappeared behind a tree line in the distance and he was alone with only the sound of the dam’s turbines spinning up behind him, about to wash away every semblance of the battlefield that had spilled over into the river and deposit it into the estuary alongside Fort Tie Shan. He thought about the drink she owed him with a small snort of amusement and looked at the unmolested side of the grassy plain on the far side of the river, reminded again of an old, Taurian expression from the frontier, “When a man leaves his home country he leaves much behind.” However, no sooner had the sentiment crossed his mind, Cassandra’s voice came on the line, straight into his neurohelmet: “Get out of sight and return to the hangar. We’ll talk when you arrive.” It wasn’t her regular haughty tone, she was serious, which got his attention. He had never heard her particularly worried about anything.

“Copy that, movin’ out.”

He wasn’t sure what had spooked her so much other than wanting to keep his status disassociated from the Knights as much as possible, but he had plenty of time to think on the long trail back that ended not far from where they first set out in the helicopter to track down Gaiwan’s Green Knights. When Cassandra had put her maps on display and given her side of the briefing back in the caves, he hadn’t given the slightest indication to their hosts that the map was incomplete, though he could see many of them watching for his reactions during her sales pitch. The actual “base” of operations he worked out of for some time was underground, connected to the tunnel network on the edge of the deep forest northwest of North Nui Awa. The trek back would take him through a section of what was considered NPDRE territory that he had crossed at night, but for the most part he wasn’t concerned with any of their patrols. They left him alone as the border between Cassandra and AVC’s holdings around the city were as political as they were physical and no one in a patrol jeep or light armor was going to question a Marauder. He throttled up and set out.

It was several hours later when he made it as darkness fell and he was tired of being in the cockpit. About halfway he’d picked up on the trail of several light mechs along with a medium out on the plain and about an hour later caught a glimpse of them several kilometers away. He knew they could see him as easily as he watched, but they continued on like a pack of wolves exchanging glances with a mountain lion. He noted their position and the time, same as he was sure they were doing and continued. Later he stopped to power down the reactor for a bit, have some chow and a smoke and then just listened as he sat under a tree next to the machine letting his head breath without the weight of the helmet. He read a few pages of a battered old paperback that he had read before, several times: All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy, a Terran classic from eons past. It was his favorite book.

The earth opened up at an angle revealing darkness therein and Jon flicked on the external lights before he proceeded underground. The large jackscrews groaned as he passed, shutting the world behind him again. The tunnel was narrow for a Marauder and he had to step carefully on a gentle decline for a few hundred meters to not rub the walls while the steady thud of the machine’s feet echoed down through the corridor until the floor opened up into a dull gray expanse nearly the size of a football field and tall enough to accommodate much larger equipment than a heavy mech. Along the nearest wall to the entrance, next to a time-faded logo of BG Metalworks was a single floodlit mechbay complete with crane arms and a glowing terminal that awaited the return of his machine. Sitting next to it was a heavy AVC work truck with its own large crane and its outriggers already extended, pressing into the ancient cement floor. Jon recognized the silhouette of the heavyset man standing next to it wearing a hard hat as Caesar, his crew chief provided by Cassandra. He backed into the bay and shut the reactor down.

“Woooo, you been busy.” Caesar’s voice called up as soon as he saw the canopy rise. His eyes scanned the blackened muzzle of the PPC barrels as well as that of the AC5, while the protective environmental film for the laser lenses had been blasted away denoting their usage.

“Change the tires, check the oil.” Jon replied, hanging his helmet behind him and throwing the ladder down.

Caesar walked around, hands on his hips, looking over the machine, stooping and craning his neck to get an initial assessment. “Well you hardly scratched the paint. Must’ve been a turkey shoot, huh?” He almost sounded disappointed.

“It was,” Jon said flatly. He unceremoniously dropped his pack on the floor from the locker behind the ankle joint and dug out a fresh pack of cigarettes, patting his pant legs for a lighter before Caesar offered one up while he continued to size up what looked to be mostly an easy reloading and post-op job. “Thanks,” Jon said, taking a long pull and leaning against the footpad. He ran a hand through the sweaty mop of his hair and savored the smoke for a brief moment before glancing up at one of ’Ossie’s heavily gauntleted arms. “Most of’em ended up dying of natural causes.”

Caesar glanced up from a datapad, regarding him strangely. As a native-Marik veteran of the Fourth Succession War and the Marik civil war, he had heard any number of bizarre mechwarrior analogies, but Mr. McCord certainly seemed to be of a different breed altogether. “What?” He chuckled as the word came out.

“Natural to the line of work they were in.” Jon said, puffing another cloud into the air. He looked across the dark corridor where the shadows stretched against the light of the mechbay. There was a large corridor on each side of the complex that led further into the tunnel network. His stomach growled.

“How’d those Knights do?” Caesar asked, being done with his initial visual inspection. He was about ready to get down to business.

“Not bad, not bad at all really.” Jon said. “One got stuck in the river right in the middle of the fight, had winch her out, may want to check the gyro is still calibrated all the way, but it felt fine to me.” He took another drag and thought about Marit again with a small smirk, but then stowed the thought and grabbed up his bag to let Caesar get to work. “Well let me go give the boss a call, she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“No she does not,” Caesar replied, typing a few commands into the mechbay terminal. His eyes glanced back and forth from the datapad. “You go have fun with that.”

~ Welcome to Sanctuary ~

Since this game is well and truly dead now, I decided it was time for me to speak my peace. So many things get left unsaid on RPGuild, but I’m just far too full of piss and vinegar to forget, let stuff go and move on. Lack of accountability, complete apathy and a general loser attitude are why so many games fail here. Players here expect, and are okay with failure- something I just cannot abide. This game failed when it didn’t have to and what’s even more aggravating, is that it shouldn’t have. On a site where so many games struggle just to just get off the ground, this game had lightning in a bottle and squandered it. It’s shameful and in over twenty years of PBP games, I have to say this was one that made me really think about this hobby as a whole.

Now I can hear all the screeching starting and that’s fine. If any of the parties involved in this travesty happen to be reading this: Yeah, I did come here to dance on the grave and say an emphatic, “I told you so.” Because I did. I didn’t write over four years of successful slice of life on this site to learn nothing about how people function, particularly when it comes to this genre. A certain vocal element entered into this game, pushed out the productive and invested players that joined at the start and then proceeded to move on once the story no longer had direction. Would things have been different if maybe someone had listened to Pilatus? Yep. I can at a minimum guarantee we would have made it past the first day.

So hats off to all of you who ran this into the ground like a jetliner into an Everglades swamp. Well done and also kudos for at least attempting to grab the control column when you saw the terrain rushing up to meet the glass. When you scrambled and made all those temporary NPCs and characters to try and make sense out of a plot that you destroyed- You have to just believe me when I say it warmed a special place in my cold black heart to watch you fail, lose interest and then just dump the game completely. What’s really pitiful is because of the attitudes listed above you probably didn’t learn anything and went on to kill other games in the same way. You all are like “anti-writers” that never make it past the Mary/Gary Sue stage. You’re just noise on the Guild that has to be squelched.

So internet traveler, if you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading. I can promise you those that committed this crime in writing did not. If they couldn’t be bothered to read the posts of other players, I doubt they made it this far. Let what transpired here be a lesson in what not to do and good luck in your games wherever you may find yourself in the Guild. If you ever have any questions or perhaps if the full story of what happened in Sanctuary tickles your fancy, you know where to find me.

-P

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Reya Wyatt

Reya felt Tarak’ s firm grip on her shoulder and put her hand on top of his, letting herself drift back and lean into him as the Colonel spoke. There wasn’t any discernible emotion on her face. She just breathed and listened to the words, feeling Tarak’s chest rise and fall gently against her back. The Colonel had believed her and yet something about it felt surreal, similar to when she had first seen the markings that Lena had left etched into the wall. The Knights had success across the board and now they were in a whole new facility, ramshackle as it might have been, that was a substantial upgrade from the accommodations offered by the exquisite Espian caves. Still though, she couldn’t remove a sinking feeling from the back of her mind. She wasn’t trained for war and sometimes it felt as though no one really cared how she felt about it. A firm voice from the back of her mind chided her that she knew better. Sunny cared even though she was a child. She thought Ziska, despite her flamboyance, genuinely did as well. Her grip on Tarak’s hand tightened slightly and her shoulders sank a bit as she let out a quiet sigh. He was becoming more and more the bedrock for her sense of stability, but darkly she wondered which version of her he really saw. The Combine engineer or the person that had walked off that APC after their first raid.

Ingrid’s words caused her glance to cut towards the shorter woman, breaking her mind out of its drift. There was a well of fire within her at the mention of breaking down their captured nuclear warhead and her brow only twitched as she managed to suppress the absolute ferocity that she felt in her chest at that sentiment. For the last several hours, she’d had to ride along and work with the Duchess and to some extent she knew what she was getting into when dealing with Ingrid, however this questioning of the Colonel felt like a step far out of her lane. According to the intelligence gathered, there was a high likelihood of two more warheads on the planet and she really thought the Knights should just take theirs apart because, “reasons”? No, it was just like the Colonel explained. That weapon truly was an “ace in the hole” and in her mind, she could visualize the foreign expression of downturned cards from having watched matches played by Ziska, Tarak and the tank crew of the crude, ancient game. The concept to her was much more straightforward though: Better to have it and not need it than to need it and have discarded it because of “morals” or some suicidal sense of righteousness. This was the Inner-Sphere and she understood her history. There were plenty of dead still clinging to those notions.

She turned her head and reached behind to pull Tarak’s head down and whisper in his ear, feeling the coarseness of his hair under her fingers. On the tip of her tongue, she wanted to describe to him how satisfying it would be to put that nuclear warhead straight through the cockpit of the Crimson Fists’ lead Battlemaster and the rest of their mechs in one beautiful, violent rush of hellfire, but she relented as he leaned in to listen. “I’m glad you're back." She said softly in his ear.