QJT

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

The Meld - Morning

Lacking air conditioning, adequate plumbing, and electricity, the Meld greeted passersby rather inhospitably. Nonetheless, a pair of welcome signs (posted at the property's front and tacked onto the entrance) announced, "Now Serving: Breakfast Amenities, Six Caps."

One stranger accepted the invitation, a pleasant rarity, and sat at the table consuming eggs and bacon. The wayfarer ate quietly, nary a sound occupying the kitchen save the faint crackle of the furnace. He occasionally glanced at the opposite wall, on which a dozen small crafts hung from pegged nails. "Potholders, Handkerchiefs, Et Cetera: Fifteen Caps" was painted on a once discarded wooden slab beneath them.

Having concluded her occupational duties, Charlotte warmed her digits beside the dazzling glow, hesitant to choke the flame so soon after ignition. Amber rounded the corner, accidentally bumping her peer's hands into scalding metal in passing. "Ah, watch it!" Charlotte exclaimed, facing her assailant. Running water absent, she sucked the tips of her fingers to keep them from permanent burn damage.

Amber turned around and bowed meekly. "My apologies; I'm terribly sorry!" She bore a lavender dishcloth, presumably another item to hang from a nail. Resuming her haste, she rearranged each article for the seventh time that week and set the rag in its rightful position.

The stranger placed his fork down, the tips of its prongs touching the ceramic surface, as was proper etiquette. Searching his pocket for straggling caps, he inquired: "I don't recognize this location. You arrived in Vegas recently?"

"We've been active for several years," Charlotte commented, "But we established a restaurant a couple weeks ago. How was your meal?"

The patron perused his plate. "Nothing original or unique, but it was simple and nice: how I appreciate my eggs, usually. An excellent product, worthy of the caps."

A wave of self satisfaction engulfed Charlotte; compliments like those didn't generally come from her compatriots. This was validation of her place in the wider world. She suppressed her inmost glee, responding with a milquetoast, "Well, feel free to come back anytime!"

The diner scooted his seat out but was interrupted by a pompous rapping at the door. Sun rays pierced through the cracks made by each pounding on the doorframe. Amber exchanged looks with her peer, mild trepidation covering both. It wasn't the rhythmic taps of familiar residents, and the guests's entrances were rarely so forthcoming. Well, it might be... Charlotte eyed her husband's rifle and breathed carefully. "It's open!" she squeaked.

The door gave way. A massive, tall, olive skinned, dirty blonde, hulking female blocked the light. She stomped her way in. A male of similar build, height, and complexion followed, considerably gentler in entrance. The woman pointed at the client. "Who is he?"

Charlotte responded just as authoritatively. "A guest of import. Why do you ask?"

The consumer looked up at the two colossi. "If it's any bother, I can depart-"

"No, you're fine. Amber will run your tab," Charlotte assured. On cue, the redhead finished sprucing her arts and crafts section to assist the gentleman. "Isabel: It's an honor," Charlotte saluted.

Isabel responded coldly. "We are in a professional environment, in the presence of an outsider. You will address me by my title and suit, Queen of Hearts."

"Ages have passed since the Vault, eh?" Charlotte lamented. "Protocol demands that colony policies overrule Vault policy on colonial holdings. Danny has habitually addressed us by our given name as opposed to our title."

"Rules, not policies," corrected Isabel, looking down her nose at her colleague. "Unless expressly written, historical precedent will not forego decorum."

Potentially afraid of invoking the newcomers' ire, the customer murmured to Amber, "Are these prior patrons of yours? I've never seen them around the Strip."

The giantess did overhear him, walked towards him, and placed her hand upon his former chair. "I am Isabel Moore, Queen of Clubs." She motioned to the giant. "He is Justin Moore, King of Clubs."

"Are you two married or something?" was the obvious reply.

The chair creaked and groaned under Isabel's grip. Her eyes alit with flame and frustration, though she remained still and statuesque. "No, we are siblings."

"Good thing we had Hinshaw's reforms; otherwise, we'd have been both!" blissfully quipped the male, wholly ignorant of (or purposely ignoring) his sister's irritation. "Nobody expected brother and sister to draw a royal marriage; that's a one in seventy two-"

"Justin: Shut it," Isabel uttered through gritted teeth. "Especially not before outsiders." She returned to the matter at hand. "Our Happy Trails contacts informed us that you spent roughly five thousand caps on a painting."

"Yes, to improve relations with the NCR's recently appointed emissary," Charlotte countered.

"Be that as it may, it's raised concerns over your expenditures. I need you to open up your books."

Charlotte complied without hesitation, opening up a newly constructed drawer and pulling out a manilla folder. "If Henry-"

"The Ace of Clubs."

"If Henry didn't trust Daniel to make the right decisions, he would've sent an Ace instead." She handed the dossier over.

Isabel's pudgy fingers parsed the pages with surprising deftness, skimming certain contents but intensely scanning the numbers. The customer handed off six caps to Amber, questions blatantly lingering in his noggin. Amber noticed and encouraged him: "Feel free to ask!"

"I didn't peg her for analysis," he whispered. "What in tarnation is an 'Ace' in this context?"

Amber's eyes lit up. "Oh, we sort ourselves at birth by cards in a pinochle deck." She recited the ruleset in a manner resembling glee. "Nines do grunt labor, Jacks oversee transportation and storage, Queens are middle management, Kings negotiate and coordinate, Tens do clerical work, and Aces are upper leadership. Among other elements, as duties arise. She just happened to be assigned the role of Queen. It's not what she was built for, but what she was trained for. Potentially what she was born for!"

Isabel shot a momentary death glare at the Nine of Hearts for revealing the Vault's inner workings but resumed her analysis. She pointed to a number. "You spent eight hundred caps on bacon."

"An admitted mistake," Charlotte explained. "We anticipated an initial revenue stream far surpassing our actual. You'll note the same situation with other supplies. We managed to resell the surplus at a discount, as catalogued the following week."

Isabel grunted in acknowledgment and resumed progress. After a minute's silence, she closed the book and returned it to Charlotte. "Your affairs are mostly in order. The few discrepancies I discovered are negligible. That aside, the Ace of Clubs-"

"Henry," Charlotte prodded.

A crack emerged in the chair's woodwork. "The Ace of Clubs has seen fit to situate myself and my brother under the Nine's purview. I'm to acquire lodging immediately." While doubtless her voice would have boomed throughout the structure, she instead opted for a low, "Where is he?"

Amber escorted her client out the egress before he got any more uncomfortable. "Well, you see-"

The Queen of Clubs tolerated no dotards. "Where is he?"

Danny "Nines" Floyd - New California Embassy - Morning, October 18th

Daniel's mood had soured considerably. Sonny's threat was taken with gravity and sincerity, and the four had left silently and respectfully. As leaders ought, he didn't transfer the natural consequences of the day's mishaps onto his subordinates but took responsibility himself. That meant that, once the artwork was safely transported to the embassy's interior, he alone balanced the masterpiece atop its frame and guarded it from theoretical assailants as his underlings got well deserved rest. The only stimuli he faced, however, were weird glances and redundant inquiries, all of which were unfailingly dismissed with, "Business of the ambassador. None of your concern. Go about your day."

He attempted to avoid eye contact with the secretary while she worked the desk. He recalled her offer to safeguard his deposit; doubtless she thought similarly, she with mirth and he with remorse. He was mature enough to reverse a mistake when it mattered, but the small minutiae of presentation could afford his pride. Sunk cost and whatnot.

Nosy inquisitors gradually decreased in frequency. Casinos operated late into the night, but even then certain hours pushed their limitations. Daniel stayed awake the entire night, whether out of duty or sheer bullheadedness even he didn't know. He was made grumpy, but his senses had dulled him and prevented him from acting upon his foul demeanor. He simply lurked calmly above the jagged bedrock of his emotions, an unfortunate place to be.

When he spotted the emissary, he exercised his last remnant of adrenaline and strolled up to the gentleman. He summoned the finest salutation his fatigue could muster: "Ah, Ambassador Watts! Fancy meeting you here." He mentally cussed himself out for an introduction that asinine, but trudged forward regardless. "As welcome into the region, we present you this exquisite oil on canvas, to remind you of old culture and your new home. Right from the pursestrings of the Ace of Clubs-" ...Henry? "Henry Hinshaw, the Ace of Clubs, to your back wall! Let it be known that the Pinochle Expedition will move mountains for its friends: quite literally!"

Daniel's tiptoe didn't flatter as he snagged the top corner of the covering, and he had to repeat the action. Sky blues and white clouds peeked out at first until the entire cover collapsed altogether, revealing the vibrant Bierstadt landscape:

Mount Corcoran

"If alternative decor can spruce up your office space, please contact us. We have connections and caps aplenty, and we'd love to share in our bounty." He felt his adrenaline's empty light blinking. "Unless there's further business, I must depart. Homesteading is unrelenting work!"

Rise of Rasalhague

Collaboration between Fuka, Jaromir, and Hamazasp

Hamazasp perused his clock: he'd successfully surpassed two hours of sedentary reading. The battlefield's wandering might occupy an afternoon, but the reading period surpassed his expectations of survival once directly engaged. He diagnosed himself: this length of seating was adequate, and nothing fell asleep. He stretched and stowed his novel carefully in order.

He departed his cockpit and routed his way towards quarters: the intended sleeping place, though the Locust was surprisingly comfortable and doubtlessly better cushioned. He passed and ignored several wayward locations, future amenities for less introductory periods.

Fuka familiarized herself with the Dragon and deemed it suitable: massive and bulky. It possessed armor and speed, both sufficient to compensate for her shortcomings as a pilot. She’d never enact brilliant strategies or perform backflips in her 'mech. She was a refined marksman and a superior brawler and through the Dragon could excel in either discipline. Not that she wouldn’t upgrade if opportunities emerged; her AC/5 was a little anemic for her liking. Once the team spread pirates across the landscape, there'd be abundant salvage to parse through, provided Alvin didn’t protest over civil rights.

She stalked the hallways with the aimless aggression of a friendly shark, the gently happy expression she wore morphing into a toothy grin as a flight mate approached. “Hey boss, can you help? Won’t take beyond a few minutes.”

Hamazasp froze, then glanced behind him to ensure she requisitioned him. The House Kurita amazon who at introduction earned herself a reputation of rubbing her teammates the wrong way and toying with them as she pleased now propositioned him for a brief favor. Unprepared for this encounter, he instinctively stepped backwards but piped, “Certainly, what’s the issue?” Locked into engagement, he resignedly assembled a slight, surprisingly more genuine smile.

She recognized him by looks as opposed to name, the bearded man with the thick coat and weird cheek tattoo who spoke like he was constantly kowtowing to some noble or another. Of course, Fuka was minor nobility and thus found his speech amusing. “Oh there’s no problem, I’m just down a partner: here, follow me.”

Without waiting for response, she barreled down the hallway at a walk that matched most people’s jog. If the Gent (as she'd already taken to calling him) wasn’t inclined, he wouldn’t pursue; no use in wasting words. “We’re going to the crew lounge, there’s some ratty shag carpet or something there. It’ll cushion our falls.”

Hamazasp attempted to guess what required a couplet falling onto a carpet. Most options were wholly inappropriate for brief acquaintances. …Trust falls? He appreciated confirmations of reliability in dire combat situations, especially seeing as he’d lost that assurance in prior encounters. Her final words passed out of earshot.

Fuka hadn’t expected to lose her tail (whose name she'd yet to ask) but wasn’t particularly surprised. She habitually moved faster than the world desired, long legs ferrying her at speeds that always seemed a tad high for the situation. It spoke to her impatience and desire for attention, her constant scurrying unbecoming of Draconis samurai…

…or so she'd been told, anyway. The criticism likely bore truth, but since when had criticism ever concerned her?

Pseudo abandoned, Hamazasp flagged a passerby. “Pardon, how might I locate the lounge?” The tech silently, irritatedly motioned out directions, and Hamazasp casually retraced the instructions to the destination. A minute passed between the two entrances. If she desired a partner so desperately, a modicum of patience sufficed, so he surmised. The wait let him preemptively regret his decisions, anyways.

He knocked on the doorway's rim, scanned the enclosure for concerns, then focused on the madam. She already slipped out of her boots as he entered. “Very well; I'm available," he stated. "What activity have you organized?”

“Sparring! It’s better to practice with live bodies and you look tough enough. No head shots obviously,” she announced, dropping into a low stance, grinning wide and inviting as she raised her arms.

While grateful to avoid his envisions, Hamazasp hadn’t calculated this possibility because such pastimes rarely crossed his mind. Having operated within the Draconis Combine, he’d naturally been exposed secondhand. His knowledge's extent didn’t surpass an introductory course; his sparring partners being minors, he promptly dropped the interest.

He discarded his shoes and coat; regardless, if she required a punching bag, he’d comply. His posture reflected European medieval martial arts, most notably the “plow,” the most balanced he could replicate. He lacked the appropriate sword for the position. Her sharp eyes detected a modicum of training, his stance foreign to her but undeniably ready. He maintained two advantages: he was well read and possessed endurance for a severe beating. He’d undoubtedly lose this engagement, but he’d make a valiant, arguably "honorable," effort. “No hard feelings, I suppose; you appear well versed on the subject.”

Quite capable of being competitive without spoiling her fun, she'd kick the gentleman’s ass to keep her ego intact. “I’m pretty good but hey, it’s all fun: no hard feelings.”

Hamazasp rarely despised a phenomenon greater than a braggart taking pride in obvious or unearned advantages. The rich flaunting wealth at the poor, the gambler with a full house displaying his fanned cards as a peacock's feathers, the victor dancing above the victim. “I’m pretty good” was weightier than Fuka considered as she casually dropped the line, and it took Sulser immense patience to suppress his emotions. Of course she excelled; it was the farmhand’s duty to determine how much.

He remained motionless for an uncomfortable amount of time. She kept stock-still as the moments ticked on, happy to let his counterpart commence while she sized up his defenses. Fighting on foot brought a very different side of Fuka, the boisterous 'mech brawler set aside for careful reactions and counter reactions.

Obviously she’d dodge his lunge and attempt to capitalize, he mused. He should feign one attempt and strike with a second. When amply ready, he shoved his left palm towards her stomach's right side, then chopped the air with his offhand towards her left hip. Given circumstances, worse options existed.

Instead of deflecting she elected to step back, neatly avoiding that first feint but in range of the true attack. Her forearm blocked that, retaliating with a quick kick at the shins to give herself breathing room. The faster Fuka employed her full range of motion, the better; those long limbs were for more than running.

His shins hurt, but please; bovines had casually taken shots at his legs for years, and he’d grown accustomed to tanking the pain. His bones weren’t broken; he bore it sturdily. If his career on the Shinonoi ranch taught him anything, it was how to handle larger creatures than himself. And it was time for cow tipping.

With his free arm, and a free leg, he advanced forward, ignoring entirely the concept of personal space. Attempting to poke at whatever seemed vulnerable, his actions reflected less method and more flailing noise. That was the intention: blind her to all else. Once sufficiently kerfuffled, Hamazasp theorized, a slight push would send the titan hurtling downward.

Hilariously, Fuka found herself on the receiving end of her favorite 'mech strategy: don’t stop swinging. It wasn’t an ineffective strategy, and often the best for beginners. No time to fumble barely remembered strategies, no tripping over your own half formed stance, just constant movement to overwhelm your opponent.

But Fuka was capable enough to weather and counter, tucking her chin behind her arms in a traditional boxer’s stance as her partner rushed. He could pat and slap but would never receive easy access. She kept her center low and solid as she braced against the assault.

Her mechanical arm wasn’t stronger than her flesh-and-blood alternate but didn't tire; she snatched out with it, attempting to grip the man’s wrist. The counteraction succeeded, halting Hamazasp’s mad rush. Cowherd that he was, the Taurian lacked the proper physique to directly counter the amazon’s play. Her grip was tight, so he couldn’t slip away. He had moments, but his education in other disciplines (notably armored warfare) at minimum taught him impromptu action. He simply didn’t excel at it.

His arm was incapacitated, but so was hers; his remaining available limbs sufficed. He removed himself as range permitted, twisting his arm in her grasp and ducking. He swiveled around and pushed himself backward, his spine pressed against Fuka’s lower torso. His leg tried to reach her leg to lock it in place. Now fully enclosed within his adversary, he could with an amenable position drag her across him onto the ground. It was an extremely vulnerable position, quite handily thwart-able. High risk, high reward.

He provided a damn fine try but was nonetheless outmatched. She retained her grip even as he attempted to twist out of it, moving her feet to keep her legs from total entanglement. She had freedom of movement to shift herself but must act quickly.

“Y’know, I realized something.”

Her arms snagged his middle without any warning beyond words. The samurai grunted in effort as she lifted her partner’s feet off the ground and slammed him into the carpet.

“I never got your name.”

Hamazasp was too preoccupied, first with the counterattack and next with the pain, to fully grasp her comment. Steadfastly hunched, he landed squarely on his buttocks. He’d feel the repercussions through tomorrow’s engagement. Unsurprisingly, the Japanese amazon warrior woman possessed strength.

He relaxed himself, gradually orientating himself in his new position. He dragged himself up, then bowed in earnest salute as was custom of House Kurita. “Sulser, Hamazasp."

"Nakano, Fuka," she reciprocated.

The Taurian arose and promptly excused himself, "Pardon, my sleeping quarters await.” With that, he promptly departed the lounge.

------------------------

Trial and error plagued his route to his cabin, but he eventually arrived at his destination. His book was undisturbed, but another Mechwarrior slept in the above bunk, as the dim twilight suggested. Hamazasp accustomed to the new lighting and judged that his new bunkmate was that freed Davion slave. It appeared that he’d be receiving both ends of the baggage train. He hoped the second didn't hurt nearly as much as the first. Nonetheless, he’d make his comrade feel welcome.

His voice made no noise, but he didn’t bother to mask his footsteps, or the soft yet unmistakable rustling of his clothes' fabric. In the darkness, he ravaged his backpack for a pocket flashlight. Upon obtaining it, he opened up his novel and parsed its pages for ants and found none. He scoured his bed for ants and found none. He was relieved that he had no immediate obligations; he was presently in no state to care for other lifeforms.

He mounted the uncomfortable cot and alighted his book's black prose. He managed to conclude another chapter, but his brain hurt from the stark contrast in illumination. He slipped the book into his backpack, turned off his flashlight, and dropped it in to follow. If lazy ants still inhabited the pouch, he abandoned the (literal) little buggers to fend for themselves.

He tossed and turned in artificial gravity; his mindset wasn't yet appropriately wired for the new environment. Once the aching concluded and fatigue set in, Hamazasp dreamed that he wandered through a labyrinth filled with meadows. A feeling of hopelessness beset him, counteracted by the beautiful purple flowers. He met a heifer at the midway point of the maze. He sat crisscross and asked the heifer a few questions about the meaning of life. The bovine began to explain by discussing the physics behind jump drives, then wandered away to locate greener grass. The Taurian conveyed to collegiate students these teachings at a university, and he inspired a plethora of doctorates. Suddenly, a locomotive cracked the classroom, headed straight for our protagonist.

He woke up to self propagated darkness and pain, as he was certain his bunk mate did every morning in a separate sense. He rolled around. That must’ve been eight hours, right? Regardless, his body had chosen to arise and wouldn’t return to slumber; 'twas best to supply it. He stumbled upright. He had a change of clothes, but he’d postpone that for a lighter room and a less groggy mood.

------------------------

For a fresh merc outfit, the food was…surprisingly not complete and utter dog shit. Jaromir shoveled a bite of breakfast into his mouth, washing it with watery coffee. It wasn’t good by any means, but “not awful” was practically gourmet for military cuisine as it stood. For mercs, the difference in quality was starker. They'd recently deployed with supplies just loaded. It remained to be seen how long halfway decent supplies would last before powdered eggs and instant coffee surfaced.

While eating, Jaromir studied the sparse mission data on his tablet. His expectations for the newly-founded nation's hires were moderate, but the god damn Vikings couldn’t manage that. He set the tablet with a mildly disgusted groan and returned to his breakfast.

Sulser stumbled in. His eyes seemed completely shut, though his swift reactions to obstacles suggested a slight crack. His tray would have defied gravity by keeping upright; as they were in space, they defied physics. The meal clattered onto a table by Jaromir, a single drop of suspicious fruit juice spilling out of the cup. Its brief suspension reminded Hamazasp that he operated in foreign gravity, not that the reminder was necessary after his horrid prior evening of slumber.

He phlumped onto a seat and stared at his breakfast for an age. He didn’t touch alcohol but nonetheless felt hungover. He wished he was drunk, with revelry to compensate for his mental state. Pancakes and hash browns. His singular piece of fresh meat was a substandard sausage. He’d sacrifice for the others, or, if luck allowed, for lunch. He glanced at Jaromir with baggy, weary pupils. “Late night: the Draconis girl asked me to… you know what, not worth it.” He sectioned off his territory with a fork.

Hearing the slamming tray, Jaromir glanced up and raised his good eyebrow at the man sitting across from him. Boy, did he look like shit. He wasn't surprised that the Combine girl was involved again: regular little social butterfly, if an obsessed jockey counted as social. He briefly weighed whether or not he actually gave enough of a shit to ask what exactly happened. If his neighbor suddenly decided against sharing, it wasn’t his business to pry. Not directly, at least.

”You look like hell.” Jaromir grunted as he cut up a piece of breakfast sausage and chomped. ”And that’s coming from the guy with half his face burnt off. Decided to check the bar last night? Our resident Kurita foot soldier did strike me as a party girl.”

“Party, my entire behind,” Hamazasp stated, rubbing the mentioned object. “I know Kurita customs for festivities, and that wasn’t it,” he sighed. “I'd show you the bruise here, but I figure it’s implied. Who practices hand combat for armored warfare?" He plugged his fork into his mouth, weathering the fatigued mental storm inside. He swallowed. “A samurai, that’s who. Gosh dang, that entire warrior culture demands an overhaul.” He took a sip. “Don’t tell any Draconis I said that. Yourself?”

Jaromir suppressed a snort as he swigged his orange juice. Not concentrate, either: a miracle of God.

”You said yes? I mean, I don’t blame you if you wanted to punch her in the face a little. I can see the excuse, at least. Neurohelmet means it’s good to learn to keep your balance after getting rattled.” He spoke after a couple more bites. ”Where’d you get your training from, anyway? Gonna hazard a guess, Combine?”

Hamazasp planted a fork into a sausage. “No training whatsoever.” The introductory course from years ago didn’t count. “She merely informed me she required an individual for matters that required cushions in the crew lounge, and I figured-” he pointed his sausage at Jaromir. “Not what you’re thinking. I wished to improve group cohesion. I doubt anything was improved, regardless of my actions. And now I’m unreasonably sore, hours from battle.” He ate, then quietly finished his meal's protein centerpiece. “Nonetheless, inform me if you’d appreciate assistance of a separate, nonphysical substance. What of your endeavors?”

Jaromir nearly choked on his coffee. This guy couldn't have meant what he thought he meant. A few hacking coughs later, the Capellan caught his breath enough to reply. ”Read the intel, slept like a baby. That’s not important; let’s return to you. The hell do you mean, you’ve had no training? You mean no hand to hand, right? Tell me either you can pilot a BattleMech or you’re screwing with me.”

Hamazasp reset his fork. His voice bore a softer volume than his words implied. “I can pilot a BattleMech. I’d embark with military ranks otherwise, on an actually space worthy ship. Wasn’t the conversation about hand combat? Sheesh.” He relaxed and eyed his hashbrown. “Apologies; I cite my mental state to explain, not to excuse. I likely don’t share your battle experience, but I have mobilized a ‘mech and operated its firearms. A Spider, if it pleases you, and yes, Combine. You may rely on me in battle. Well, you may after I’ve finished this hashbrown.”

Thank god for small mercies. At least the guy was just fucking with him. Jaromir sighed as he leaned back in his seat, his meal all but concluded.

Sulser bit the fried potatoes and closed his eyes. He didn’t seem to savor it but to quiet himself internally. The meal bore no nuance; immediately swallowing or internally reflecting made no difference. He should’ve affirmed inadequate experience and watched Jaromir momentarily flip. Hamazasp only abided so much underestimation in a twenty-four hour timespan. He cleared his mouth, then his throat. “Anything in the intel strike you as curious? I noticed a few details in places, but nothing worth bringing to attention.”

”Alright, sorry, had to make sure. Wouldn’t believe the kinds of people that sneak into the hiring halls sometimes. As for the intel, I noticed only the lack of it. We’ve got topographical data and that’s it. I'm certain the boss’ll lay it out.”

The immediate question on Hamazasp’s mind was what unskilled labor managed to infiltrate the hiring halls, but he tabled that musing for later. “Thanks; I perused it prior, but another review seems tempting.”

Jaromir finished his coffee and returned his mug. ”Be careful out there, alright? Even if the pirates don’t have surprises, it’d be downright embarrassing for anyone to get taken out by Locusts. Don’t need to be bleeding people in our first drop.”

“Same goes both ways!” Hamazasp smiled, then shook his head. “Whoops; I referred to the enemy. You take care as well to be certain, but I operate a Locust myself in this upcoming scuffle. It’d be rather shocking for everyone involved if I appeared on the scoreboard! Myself included, I suppose,” he chuckled. “Pleasure meeting you, Jaromir. You seem a genuine fellow, and this was certainly not the worst encounter I’ve had aboard this vessel. Potentially the best.” He raised his juice glass to that notion.

”Your only other meeting in this outfit so far involved you getting punched out. That bar’s so low it’s underground.” Jaromir snarked in response, though he raised his emptied mug regardless. "Genuine" was a rare compliment, though any compliment was rare. He stood up with his tray. ”CO said to meet in the orientation room at noon sharp. Don't be late; no point in him getting pissy before our drop. Maybe get a snooze in before then.”

“Concurred; Morning,” Hamazasp replied. He gazed into his cup as his compatriot’s footsteps faded into the multitude. A conglomerate operated best when individual components functioned in tandem. In a mere sixteen hours, he’d learned his comrades' calibers, and discovered what caliber he must possess to compensate.

Rasalhague's assigned mechanic had less experience than he; Hamazasp should be knowledgeable. His bunk mate brought baggage that he couldn’t carry; Hamazasp should emotionally fortify himself. The dragoness used and dismissed individuals on a whim; Act in humility and grow strong independently. Only the grizzled veteran was apparently reliable, and he underestimated Hamazasp. The Taurian cheese maker had plenty to prove. Brief rest was sage advice. He concluded his beverage and collected his tray. Before then, he’d check if they allowed additional helpings of the hash browns and pancakes.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Gomorrah Front Entrance - The Disturbance

Charlotte appeared more disgusted by the concept of barbecue sauce ruining her dress than fearful of the threat of deathclaws. She dusted off her apparel at the mere thought, as if the condiment was already upon her. It seemed that Sonny struck a nerve, in multiple ways.

"'That thing' is a priceless, centuries old Bierstadt," Amber hissed, attempting to return the insult she was dealt with full (hundred fifty) honors. "I bet it's worth five times your annual-"

Amber wasn't helping. This security guard wasn't bound by inner propriety, and Daniel effortlessly imagined him punching a hole in the canvas to "ruin your day, see how youse like it, huh bub?" Danny regarded it as the worst case scenario not for the permanent, irreparable loss of culture from the world but simply because he'd have spent a King's ransom of caps and an entire morning of labor for naught. That situation would really crease his cards, and was becoming increasingly likely.

He lifted his open palm gradually. "Relax, sweetheart; I'll handle this." He raised his other to pose a casual surrender. "This was a simple matter. We had no intentions of interrupting your business, and we can compensate. If you're willing to throw hands and risk a scuffle from the North for fifteen minutes of pause, I'm sure your patrons will appreciate the sudden uptick in violence in this quiet haven." Nines trusted this man to detect the tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

"Yeah, I always wanted to make an example out of an Omertas thug!" Bradley shouted; putting up his dukes, wholly ignoring the rifle slung over his shoulder. Apparently he hadn't gotten the message.

Daniel closed his eyes. "Brad, shut it. In fact, drag the frame outward." Brad hesitated but complied, Charlotte managing Danny's side. Gamblers started shuffling in, while spectators gathered around and watched the powder keg in keen anticipation. Daniel reopened and shrugged. "Not even an half hour, well before tonight's peak. All we desired was to visit the ambassador. Perhaps when we unveiled this here painting, it would have been a spectacle unto itself—a crowd pleaser—but you're preoccupied enforcing the status quo." He shook his head. "So be it. If you could at least point us in Benjamin Watts's direction, we'll vacate the premises." He stepped lightly from the doorway to the breezy October gusts beyond.

Charlotte was silent but now offered an apologetic nod. "Sorry, we're new in town."

Danny bowed in social courtesy. "So, in what manner might we pay respects to a reputable institution such as yours? Name your price; the Pinochle Expedition is a boon to its friends. If you're unable to negotiate, maybe we can work it out with Fat Dom himself." Just for safety's sake, he murmured to his girlfriend, "You told Happy Trails to summon Vaulters down, correct?"

Amber was slightly perplexed yet reflected Daniel's volume. "Well, yes, but they won't arrive for several days."

Nines's countenance hinted at a wry smile. "Not for immediate reinforcements; only that we won't have perished unnoticed should things turn south."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

(Commander) Danny "Nines" Floyd - Embassy - Evening, October 16th

Floyd had tested a hundred separate explanations while experimenting with diplomacy. They either were insufficient or directed the listener too closely to his true origin. Nonetheless, he'd attempt his most successful. He scratched his head. "Pinochle is, in fact, a card game," Danny commenced. "We wanted to better resemble the general milieu. We were 48 strong when our faction first arose. We each had a designation." Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn Nine of Clubs. The plastic sheen bore nervous sweat which he wiped off. "But we are certainly a reputable organization, I assure you."

Annexation had remained a persistent rumor which NInes elected to dismiss. By merely mentioning it, the dignitary had given that speculation weight. Daniel swallowed. "Gloria van Graff. I'll keep an ear out for that name. Steelworks are expensive but lucrative; we'll manage."

He stood up. "I believe that's all the time I've allocated for this meeting. If amenable, please postpone zoning the northern reaches of town until an in depth conversation." His brief nod was an acknowledgment of respect. "My impressions are positive. New Vegas has a cornucopia of amenities and elements of civilization we'd consider exotic luxur-" Daniel paused. He was to hype his sponsors, not reveal it for its backwater nature. "Which we'd regard as unnecessary frivolities. Still, pleasure is indelibly linked to humanity. Expect future correspondence."

Daniel departed sheepishly. If the NCR was planning to claim the entire plot, he'd have to grease palms rather quickly.

Northwest Passage, "Meld" Outward Base: Midnight, October 17th

"So what's the plan now?" Charlotte asked.

The table was tense in the dim candlelight. The colony was on the brink of failure. Worse, Vault 48 might enter direct conflict with the Republic over territorial disputes. Floyd shrugged. "It's difficult to make friends with such a recent entry," he stated. "The best we should hope for would be for California to ignore us. They'd mark our territory as theirs on their map, but we'd control it in practice. No taxation, no regulations, et cetera."

"What 48 is to them already," Bradley commented. "We can handle that."

Daniel folded his hands. "There's a last element I've yet to mention. Benjamin Watts is a gentleman of immense culture, and he's looking to overhaul his office's aesthetic. I told him that we'd present something worthy of his stature. So," he turned to Amber, "no holds barred. Money is no object; Hinshaw would agree with me. Check with the Happy Trails Caravan, and fetch me a gift that will impress."

Amber lit up like a nuclear blast. "They informed me they'd return to Sacramento tomorrow; I'll rendezvous at dawn. I know precisely what to get him!"

Embassy - Noontime, October 17th

It was uncomfortably hot for an autumn day. Of course, it could simply be the additional workload that caused them the agony. The landscape oil on canvas was upright and covered by a tarp, and the two boys took one side apiece. Charlotte helped ease the burden and stabilize the procession. Amber, the expert, led the way, practically skipping as she strode down the streets. As they approached the embassy, Danny decided to voice his final displeasure.

"Damnation, couldn't you have traded for a nice small sculpture?"
"Hey, you instructed me to acquire an impressive work of art!" Amber defended.
"Yeah, but in terms of quality, not quantity! The confounded thing is seven by ten feet!"
"Look, once we unveil it, you'll see it's worth every bottle cap," she assured. "It's a gorgeous view of the Sierra Nevadas!"
"The caps don't even worry me," Danny complained. "Just how cumbersome it is."

Amber replaced Daniel as he entered the embassy and passed the casino area. He was flagged by a woman at reception. "Excuse me, sir. Where are you headed?"
Daniel casually saluted. "Business with the ambassador. We come to pay homage with an offering."
"He's currently away at the Gomorrah," the secretary revealed. "But if you deposit it by my desk, I'll ensure that-"
"Thank you, but we'll pass on that offer," Danny replied. Sunk cost fallacy: he'd worked so hard for the perfect moment; he'd settle for nothing less. He exited the building and hailed his people. "We're going to the Gomorrah."

Gomorrah - Afternoon, October 17th

The Gomorrah had seen strange sights aplenty, but this was unique among them. A crowd had gathered inside and outside the facility as four yokels blocked the doorway. The tall, flat cargo they carried wouldn't fit through without finagling. A man with a big blonde Dutch beard commanded from the rear. "No, turn it clockwise. No, that's counterclockwise; I'm doing it from your perspective. That's it. Reverse towards me; let's try this again." He looked around. "If someone notifies Ambassador Watts, we'd appreciate the gesture! He's negotiating here presently."

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

The FTL notification moderately concerned Hamazasp. His current accommodation didn't appear suitable for major motions in any direction. He must find an adequate position in seconds. He stood up and passed to a bolted ledge on the wall. Gripping it, he placed one foot in front to handle vertical momentum, then planted the other sideways for horizontal changes. He took an unnecessary deep breath. He'd merely been used to commercial passenger flights on ships whose age was counted in decades, not centuries.

He rode the jump as on a surfboard. Quite fitting, considering the fluid around him. As the nausea started to seize him, he glanced at the plasteel chair. Perhaps that would have sufficed, but he was grateful for his present stance. He despised surprises; they afforded him no chance to think. Regardless, the vessel exited hyperdrive, leaving him no worse for wear. He remained standing as his terrain question was answered. As soon as Ulrik sent data to his datapad, Hamazasp focused almost exclusively upon it, mildly acknowledging but largely ignoring his colleagues' rash banter. Collecting his backpack from the floor, he was the final rookie to evacuate, if only to squeeze in a few moments of study before another task awaited him.

Ankhanne, Mech Bay

His first motion was to pay the technicians homage. He approached the Slavic giantess and briefly bowed. "I am Hamazasp Sulser. I wished to commend you for your service. I'll attempt to maintain my battlemech and keep it as unscathed as the situation allows. If anything else assuages your workload, please inform me. I look forward to future cooperation, Elena." With a salute, he resumed his duties. He intended to uphold that promise, not for special preference and benefits. Lesser pilots might even have pursued romantic interests. No, though Elena was physically massive for a human, everything looked puny and minuscule from a cockpit. MechTechs often bore the brunt of the social totem pole. If his ten comrades wouldn't acknowledge her, then his respect would be tenfold.

His fellow mercenaries were in such a rush to the cornucopia's largest and flashiest. The heavy and a medium were both claimed, the single remainder outside the light class, singular beyond the 35 ton Panther, doubtless shortly to follow. Let the warriors have their fun; the big and bulky didn't interest him. He wasn't the best candidate for the titans, anyways, having sparingly little relative experience. No, he preferred something small and manageable which wouldn't punish him for his inaccuracy or his inability to maneuver. His favorite would go fast yet turn on a dime. In line with his vow to Elena, his choice would be free of pockmarks when the fight concluded, absent of signs of combat as it wouldn't be struck at all! And for that, his gaze shifted towards the left corner at the Locust. He marched off accordingly.

Pleased by its smooth feel, he brushed his hand against the Locust's clean paint. He hailed the technician beside him. "Halloo! Of what discrepancies should I be aware prior to mounting?"

She shook her head. "None, I suppose," she reported, "but I didn't bother to check much. I was helping Aaron fix that Urbanmech."

A futile endeavor, Sulser figured. Nobody wanted to operate the quintessential hybrid of powerlessness and clunkiness. Nonetheless, he scaled the ladder. "Have you checked it for airtightness yet?"

"Oh shoot, I forgot!" she despaired, fearful of her boss's wrath.

"Not to worry! If you don't mind fetching me a blower and a pressure gauge, I'd appreciate it!" Hamazasp popped open the hatch and situated himself. He noticed a plastic filament above the touchscreen, which he'd never encountered in a vehicle of this caliber. He hesitated to tear it off, and instead booted it up to be bombarded with a flurry of Swedish, of which he understood mere bits and pieces. "Logga in" and "diagnostik" were easy, but "kulspruta" and "kasta" presented more challenge. Still, it didn't require a detective to see the four-digit number starting in "303" to determine the treasure across which he'd stumbled.

He needed to protect his newfound gain. He lightly pinched his chin, then met with epiphany. Recalling exposure to the broader environment, he loudly announced, "Yuck! There's a dead sparrow in here!" and then calmly closed his door. Rats didn't nest up that far up, and birds too large couldn't fit in. The perfect fabrication.

His mechanic rushed to his aid with the requested materials. "Quiet in there! Elena's gonna come down on me like a hurricane!" she hissed.

"Climb inside," Hamazasp motioned. He nodded once she was safely aboard. "Apologies; I meant no collateral damage. Let's hook this up, shall we?"

They departed the biped together and initiated the experiment. The instrument's barometric readings changed dramatically; Rasalhague (or whomever they bought this from) made an excellent product. Hamazasp high fived his acquaintance, and the two dismantled the configuration. "What do they call you, cadet?"

"Sigrid Lundqvist," she replied.

"Well, madam," Hamazasp commented. "I hope for further success with you!"

She smiled. "Alright, I'm off to assist elsewhere."

He bade her farewell. "Take care!" He reclaimed his seat and unslung his sack. The monitor greeted him with "Namn." He reflected on his infinite options. He recalled his cheese industry career, to poor Clara. Remarkably smart for a bovine, she could tell her fate the day Sulser gave it to her. Every cow he slaughtered in the twilight of his dairy business turned into a good steak dinner except for her. Her, a queen among cattle, he buried. His eyes got misty. It was right that he honor her memory. He punched in the letters: "Ayrshire," her breed.

Next item. He identified a proper nook, an edge of the dashboard's rim, and he began to cram it with the plethora of novels he'd brought along. Some were the last copies he knew in existence. Maybe it was reckless to trudge them into battle. Oh well. He sighed after the assortment was formatted by author name, then pulled out Weakness: A Ternary Star Adventure. He'd ensure eight hours of sleep later, but presently he'd get comfortable in his prize.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

(Commander) Danny "Nines" Floyd - New California Embassy - Evening, October 16th

"I'm certainly no casino man," Daniel quipped with a smile. With all the duties of outpost maintenance, he couldn't allocate time for gambling, not that a massive waste of caps interested him. "But I shall follow in regardless."

Danny passed through the games hall, peering over shoulders at the amounts of capital spent here. It surpassed his personal budget; he feared that he'd have to engage in card play to impress the citizens around here. He'd be a laughing stock if he went broke. The Ace of Clubs probably could spare him a sizable sum should the situation require it. Diplomatic efforts and whatnot.

Daniel perused the tchotchke organized around the office. It might have been slightly tacky, and wholly inappropriate for his own abode, but at least something covered the walls and floorboards. He wished the Meld had similar decoration. "Oh, either works. So long as you don't call me Flo." His guffaw skirted the border between fake and genuine. He was, in fact, called Flo by a particularly annoying superior back home, and Danny was helpless to reciprocate in the pre-Hinshaw era. How times have changed. He sat in the red plush chair.

"And, on a personal basis, let me know if you require any assistance renovating your space." Perhaps he could acquire the green army rug from the ordeal; Charlotte likely wouldn't mind. He thought his next comments out loud, a taboo in diplomatic circles. "With such short notice, we haven't had the opportunity to fetch you a proper gift. You've highlighted a need, so we can provide you with a more suitable present: classy, but emblematic of your new home." Nines had absolutely no taste, but Amber excelled at that sort of work. Doubtless the Happy Trails Caravan had something in its inventory. Amber would be ecstatic that she had license to splurge without restriction. And a pleased girlfriend had its benefits.

Floyd folded his hands together and kicked one leg atop the other. Barely acknowledging the weight of the encounter, he'd assembled some loose ideas while traversing his route, but he hadn't settled on a specific line. Still, the vague shape of conversation slowly manifested as he spoke. "The purpose of this engagement was largely introductory. You've recently arrived as an ambassador, and we wished to send our warmest welcome. I hope you understand. We're an emerging power, and it's better to grow with friendly neighbors than without.

"I represent an organization that reaches north to the Bishop area. We're a common trade hub." "Vault" had an extremely negative connotation in elite circles, so Floyd avoided such terminology. "If you'd like to set up a regional network, feel free to ask us. In the meantime, though, we ask that you refrain from sending a military presence north of the Tools Factory. Be advised that we will be engaging in construction projects, but there's no reason why they cannot be joint development. We can split costs and share benefits. The Mojave needs manufacturing; I'm sure you agree."

He relaxed in his seat. "As for yourself, does your administration have particular intentions? I'd like to relay them back to my superiors, and we can assist as needed."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Danny "Nines" Floyd: Northwest Passage, "Meld" Outward Base: Middle Afternoon, October 15th

Daniel knelt and sampled the soil beneath him. Wet yet coarse, it gave him the desire to wash immediately. It smelt burnt, but it wasn't radioactive. He rose. Dirt that was safe to touch was fit for plants. Past a mop of blonde strands, Floyd gazed up at a house a few minutes' walk from where he planted his feet. In the future, that structure would be completely blocked from view by the uncountable stalks of the settlement's first harvest. Whether he survived to see the dream come true, his imagination painted a vivid landscape around him. He felt at peace, at home, even if his birthplace was a week's travel away.

Settled with his survey, he picked up a backpack from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. He approached the entrance and knocked a pattern upon it, reminiscent of morse code. In seconds, the door opened, and a dark-haired woman filled the doorway. "Nines. You've returned earlier than expected."

"Trade was easy; salvage was easier." Danny passed her towards a kitchen space and unslung his pack onto a table. "To be fair, Charlotte, your requests weren't too cumbersome to obtain."

Charlotte followed him and unpacked his sack, sine asking permission. "Finally; a trowel!" she exclaimed. She held up the handheld metal tool. "I'm surprised how infrequently I find them. Weeding will become much simpler. The creeping Green had almost gotten the better of me." She stowed it in a drawer. "You could have accomplished more downtown."

"Then take the spare time now and reserve it for when I arrive late," Dan replied. "You're never this strict about my schedules. Something wrong?"
"Charlotte, I'm ready for-" A prematurely balding man turned the corner, pausing mid-sentence. "Nines! Why are you-"
"Bradley, just... save it for a later day," Charlotte sighed.
Bradley left the scene, muttering a lack of acceptance. "But we were going to-"
"Stow it," Charlotte resolved, reevaluating the precious loot from the bag. "These are candles. I'll put them aside for Amber. Do you remember her reason?"
"Happy Trails had a demand," Daniel explained. "They wouldn't part with their oil lamps otherwise."
"And what's our purpose for lanterns?"
"Gee, so our bedtime isn't sundown? So we can read and hobby with the civilized folk?"

Another rapping sounded. Floyd knew the sequence; he apparently wasn't the only adventurer who finished early. A slender female redhead walked in, and Floyd sauntered forth to greet her. "Amber! Welcome back!"

Amber threw her arms out wide and enveloped Danny in a warm embrace. "It's good to be where I belong again!"
Bradley reentered, musing at the couple. "We used to be like that, Charlotte."
Charlotte smiled at the memory. "Alright, since we're all present, I suppose we ought to report on our happenings."
Daniel began. "The whole town's riled up. The NCR's assembling a hasty squad and assigning them to the Mojave Checkpoint."
Everyone remained silent for a moment. Bradley piped up. "And you didn't consider that important enough to investigate? If it's not a border skirmish, it's likely a bigwig figure, I reckon."

Daniel guided the assembly to be seated. "I suspect it regards internal Republic business."
"Forgive me for speaking matters of state out of turn," Charlotte apologized, "but Henry Hinshaw, the Ace of Clubs, explicitly stated that our mission was-"
"To establish a network of contacts and cement our sovereignty in the region. I am well aware, Queen of Spades," Daniel interrupted. "I simply thought that a sloppy troop exercise wasn't worth my paranoia." He emptied the rest of his bag's contents. "Nonetheless, if you three would appreciate our representation at this Californian event, I have nothing else to do with my night. I'll stock up for a journey." He stood up. "I will be taking Bradley's hunting rifle, though. It has a nicer scope than my lever action."
Bradley nodded. "My service for Vault 48."

Amber rose to meet him. "Be careful out there, okay? For me."
Daniel ran a hand through her bobbed hair. "I don't care if you're the Nine of Hearts; you'll always be my queen."
"And you're my king, honey!" Amber assured.
"Break it up, lovebirds," Bradley announced, fetching his firearm and tossing it to Floyd. "Be certain to inform us in the morning."

New Vegas Strip: Evening, October 15th

Danny rerouted to ensure that he received whatever VIP the west decided to throw at him. He still considered this duty pointless, but he at least appreciated a proper neighborhood stroll.

Of course, the gunshot forced him to recalculate.

Danny readied his gun and breathed deeply. Regardless of the magnitude of this encounter, there lay some opportunity... and potential death. He jogged forward down the streets to the source of the noise: a caravan on horseback, escorted by a miniature army. This was far above his pay grade. He pointed his hands and rifle skyward, announcing his presence to the convoy.

"Don't shoot; I bear tidings of goodwill!" If they continued without him, he'd attempt to match their pace, futile as his efforts might be. If not, he'd relax and approach them diplomatically. He silently wished he'd brought backup, heck, the whole gang. "Daniel Floyd, regional commander and envoy of the Pinochle Expedition. Pleased to make your acquaintance. With whom do I speak?"

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

The Leopard which carried Hamazasp was typical of Rasalhague's present catalogue: old, musty, discourteous, but functional. The metal frame's rickety movement didn't ease him, but this would be far from the first or the most dangerous deadly experience he faced in his lifetime. He savored the thrill of being lurched upward, then forward. He quite relished this rarity.

Once the transport was well underway, he opened his backpack and parsed its contents. The fifteen books he brought were accounted for. As expected, a few straggler ants crawled across their spines: residue from his evening of sleep beside the queen. He contemplated cracking open a novel, but he didn't wish to accidentally crush an unsuspecting insect. On the other hand, he couldn't exactly unbuckle his seatbelt and freely roam the cabin. She wouldn't mind, would she? He sighed. Without adequate food or oxygen, their lives were forfeit anyways. He quietly mourned their loss, then pulled out a fresh copy of Dateline Destiny: Strange Tales But True by Adam Rasalhague, a book he'd picked up from a gift shop just before departure. He'd considered The Philosopher And The Space Traveler by General Yuri Gamato, but his new employer's cultural heirloom felt more appropriate. Of course, the slow reader he was, he'd barely finished the third chapter when he reached his destination.

The vessel was ancient, centuries older even than the original manuscripts of (the majority of) his novels. Braving a potential slew of long dormant diseases, he brushed his fingers against the wall's rusty frames as he strolled through them. Not much survives from yesteryear; what remains ought to be prized, no matter its condition. Perhaps he'd spend some time polishing its sides in periods of pause. Regardless, he needed to stake a bunk. He wandered his way to quarters, selected the bottommost bed, and set down his current read to claim it. An ant obliviously traversed the cover. That duty complete, he slung his pack over his shoulder and headed for the briefing.

The plasteel seat was unruly but serviceable. Hamazasp had employed worse, including (shudder gasp) regular plastic chairs. Still, he figured he should requisition a pillow for his 'Mech to maintain this posture on this material for hours if not days. He positioned himself near the room's rear if only so that his comrades could take the front and pay better attention. Alas, he miscalculated the edge lords and lone rangers lonelier individuals coveting the distant seats in the corner, crowding Sulser beyond comfort.

He studied his superior, then his colleagues. Lichen was good for natural dyes, especially since they required no urine mordant to fuse to cloth; he dabbled with it while experimenting on his farm. He hoped to obtain a sample, though he wouldn't leave his cockpit except under utmost necessity. Mäkinen's cynicism was unwarranted but tolerable. His peers, however... "Babysit captives," "Ex-Mistress," alongside the tone: not signs of proper integration. Hopefully team cohesion remained intact. He supposed he shouldn't overly rely on them; emotional compromise was a liability.

He waited for a second, then arose. "Black ops? A particularly tough Lance simply means higher quality loot upon survival, I reckon." Pessimism was best countered with optimism. "For either ourselves or Republic stock. I myself have a question, Sir Commander. I presume that the landscape is fairly flat, with nuclear bombings and all. Nonetheless, are there local terrain elements to denote?" He wasn't one for intense maneuvers, and he preferred to keep it that way. He implied but didn't outright state his curiosity about the mercenaries' cut of weapons and parts out of his strict sense of professionalism.

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

Hamazasp shuffled among the trail of recruits. He relished the frigid morning breezes; this exact temperature heralded his earliest daily routines back... Well, "home" took multiple meanings over his adult career. Either he'd acquired a plethora or he maintained none. He likely possessed one with his family, though his sister had burned it and he never bothered to repair it. He glanced behind him, then before him. He calculated impossibly tedious wait times wherever he situated himself. With no apparent gain or loss, he resolved not to expend his inaugural hour on Skandia amidst the doldrums of bureaucracy. And so he drifted out of sync with the caravan to, at least temporarily, embark on a miniature adventure.

Few in this installation would freely escort him around the facility, certainly not with his unverified registration. So long as Mimir hadn't chewed him up yet, he was relegated to the confines of the terminal. His preliminary visit was a tinted window, beyond which hills rolled in the nearby landscape. The skies grew increasingly bluer, and the wind's ripples rustled through the local flora, mostly grasses. Hamazasp exhaled, pretending that the stuffy air inside was fresh, practicing for his own vehicle. He attempted to spot fauna from such a distance. A herd of cattle grazed on the gentle slopes. Telemark breed: you could tell because they appeared to be pressed between two giant sheets of caramel paint. He imagined himself piloting a battlemech and coloring the cows that way. Bovines were slippery when the situation arose; he'd have to catch the heifer by surprise. His superior officer, whoever he or she would be, wouldn't allow it.

In the foreground, mechs stomped into loose organizations. He mused whether they were allied, or supervising, mercenaries or simple mechanics aligning them like toys. He couldn't settle on his favorite design. He hoped to be awarded something manageable: a Light, maybe a Medium. He'd gratefully accept whatever was on his plate, be they mere leftovers. He spotted a Centurion jogging from the horizon. What in the world would drive a pilot to travel that wayward? Hamazasp tracked the lone stranger to its halt at the periphery of Olaus. What an amusing sight!

He traveled down a corridor to its furthest extent, then repeated until he was utterly lost, or would be without maps posted everywhere in the spaceport. There, he found seating and occupied it. He surveyed the indoor scenery, fixating at last on a poster. It was assuredly propaganda, but regardless he perused it. Why not? Some schmuck spent an entire workday — no, judging from the misaligned center, a lunch break — designing the ensemble. He identified various national symbols and guessed at others. He'd require additional research in the future. The bright blue Scandinavian patterns and designs highlighted the culture into which he'd soon be immersed. The colors were striking; he enjoyed it. Sine message, of course.

His gaze shifted towards a marble sculpture of a woman, roughly his age by appearance. How often had passersby ignored her? Was she an important historical figure, or symbolic of a theme? If the former, she was undoubtedly well past her prime if not already deceased. If the latter, well, her complexion was too nice to convey anything of significance. The youth of the nation, perhaps? He wondered if he'd find romance in this conflict. A girl that wonderful was out of his league. What embarrassing thoughts. He was grateful to ponder alone, where his musings wouldn't see daylight. His vacation concluded, he stood up to rejoin his pack.

He bore no remorse cutting in line; he simply reclaimed space he'd earned previously. At about twenty cadets from the front, he focused attention to the panel of receptionists, quietly listening to questions they asked and his forebears' answers. He would not be caught unawares. Nonetheless, he pondered a select couple in detail as he approached the rightmost of the array. She reminded him of the statue: beautiful, unflinching, and cold. The warm glow of her screen bounced off her. Her judgmental stare was itself sufficient to unnerve most, but Hamazasp was unimpeded. "Salutations, young madam! Has today fared well so far?"

She blinked, unamused. "Name?"
"Hamazasp Sulser. The Third, if I recall."
"Ess Eeh Are. Planet of origin?"
That was a curious question; he hadn't quite settled on a wholly satisfactory answer. Place of birth felt best. "Illiushin, in the city of New Lismore, on the continent of Harbor."
"Haych Eye Enn. Passport?"
He pulled out his booklet, unlocked its verigraph, and spread it open to show her. As she punched numbers into her computer, he decided to risk a conversation. "What remains of your shift?"
The clacking paused. "Three, four hours." It resumed. "What is your purpose here?"
Pleasure. "Business. What do you have lined up with the conclusion of your work?"
"I dunno. Probably a holovid, then sleep." She stamped a page and returned it to him. "Hold still; I'm reading you for illnesses."
He remained motionless, then slacked after hearing a beep. "Are any elements irregular?"
She shook her head. "You're a Merc, correct?"
"Indeed; thanks for asking!"
"Your barracks will be out those doors, the sixth building on your left."
"Much appreciated! I hope your evening's entertainment is as lovely as the rest of your afternoon!"
"Welcome to Rasalhague." Heavens above, she smiled. Her face reformed to stone. "Next!"

No sooner had Hamazasp taken six steps than he was seized by the shoulder. "Please come with me, sir. Let's have a word together."
His overly cheerful demeanor must have caused himself issues yet again. He complied, and was led to a purposely blank room. A lady whose insignia featured a bearded man motioned to a chair, which Sulser accepted. The door closed. She cleared her throat, pulling out a datapad. "What are your prior occupations?"
"Largely dairy and data analysis. I have operated complex machinery, if you have concerns regarding my qualifications."
"Hm," grunted the interrogator. "Alright, gouda and camembert: what are the differences?"

That was an odd comparison. Even if perfunctory with ulterior motives, someone's care for his craft was touching. "Gouda tends to run in its adolescence, and crumbles with accumulated years. Camembert does the reverse. Also, camembert's rind is typically eaten in Kurita and Steiner (but not Taurian or Capellan) social circles, whereas gouda's... I mean, it won't kill you, but I highly recommend against it."

He stretched. "You can make both with the same milk, but I personally think that certain breeds function better with regards to branding. The vast majority of grocers would laugh you right out of the market if you sold them a camembert wheel with a Jersey on the package." He held up a finger. "You know, Jerseys might actually suffice if you're marketing pepper jack. Haven't tried it myself, so I cannot guarantee the results. Can I interest you in my experience with gorgonzola?"

The agent's fingers pinched the bridge of her nose as her peer rapped upon the entrance. "Get out," she muttered.

Hamazasp opened the egress, and a seedy Mechwarrior locked eyes with him, accompanied by the soldier who directed Sulser earlier. Sulser saluted. "Enjoy your stay; they're rather friendly!" He marched off to his quarters. All too easy. He was no secret informant, but these encounters amused him endlessly.

Sulser heard his compatriots' quarrel several paces from the structure itself. He rounded the corner and addressed them. "Greetings, friends! I'm assigned to this dormitory, and I wish to introduce myself!"
"Oh gosh, we can't handle this many," a fellow replied.
"What seems to be the issue?"
"We don't have enough beds for each of us," stated a separate acquaintance. "You're going to have to use the floor."
Sulser scanned the area. A half wall of bunks displayed no traces of human activity. "Who's claimed that section?"
"Nobody," answered the first warrior. "Not unless you count the ant colony."
"And the higher ups appear to have other priorities," bemoaned the second. "You'd have to be used to gutter conditions to slumber there."
"And I arrived the soonest, so the bed is mine."
"Nonsense; the order was arbitrary. I'm the experienced driver, so I take seniority."

Hamazasp abandoned the group to its bickering in favor of the ants. He crouched and viewed the scene. Those were pretty large grunts. He squinted, and... was that the queen? Her choice of location was truly desperate to expose herself thusly. He withdrew a roundel of colby from his overcoat, his beloved empire's parting gift. He'd planned to crack it at an appropriate moment; this seemed fitting. He tore off a piece and placed it beside the monarch as a peace offering. As her royal subjects hurriedly inspected, then dismantled the foreign object, he climbed to the top bunk and bit the cheese himself, reminiscing on bygones and the day's events. His overlooked his lactose intolerance for this special celebration in the quiet. No comrade would share his haunt for a five meter radius, anyways. Yet another trinket of his previous lives vanished into the aether.

His younger selves were dead. May life blossom anew in their absence. The Sulser way.

Noble Arms - The ASEAN War [Moved to New Thread]

Jackson Atoll - 10/11/2022, 18:53 UTC +8

Field Officer Pan's impatience was infectious. He spread it by pacing back and forth across the bridge of the Zunyi, brushing past his subordinates, occasionally rechecking his binoculars and muttering to himself. It put the entire staff at near constant unease, not that confrontation would assuage tensions. Finally, the officer broke the silence. "What the hell is that? I demand to know! A skyward naval vessel?"

"It's not ours, sir," assured the ship's captain. He'd readied that information ever since his superior asked but only recently had the opportunity to report. "Ours," of course, meant an asset of the People's Liberation Army Navy. Whether its allegiances were broadly to China was anyone's guess.

Pan grunted. "Someone get me the Air Force."

While an aide contacted Pan's peer, a junior officer announced, "The Baise has taken severe damage, sir. The captain makes plans to scuttle the ship."

"And they still aren't asking for our aid?"

"Field Officer Luo says he has the situation under control."

At that point, two massive lasers pierced the night sky. The ship was just south of east; the lasers were just north of east. Pan's attention was momentarily distracted when his underling piped up, "Field Officer Gao on the line for you, sir!"

Pan spent a few seconds inspecting the light show before sauntering over to the comms. "Gao! Your aircraft are messing about in our waters!"

"Which aircraft? What waters? We have no exercises in that area currently."

Pan looked out through his binoculars. The floating ship and an unseen mystery surface combatant were exchanging salvos. He muted himself and asked his captain. "We have no vessels out there, right?"

The captain was about to reply with a hearty "Yessir," but he stopped just before responding. "It could be Luo's fleet, if our equipment is not properly calibrated." It was a long shot, but stranger circumstances had happened. He wasn't about to retrieve his sextant to confirm.

"You'd think Luo would mention a spectacle like that." Pan took Gao off hold. "Well, something's out there, and it's shooting at something else. I know the enemy is prowling around these waters, and wars have only two sides. It's a big, bright aircraft. Are you sure you have no presence in the area? Perhaps your inventory missed something?"

"Our inventory missed something? Qù cāo nǐ zìjǐ, you navy swine!" responded Field Officer Gao.

The aide inspected his dial board. "He hung up, sir."

Pan threw back his shoulders and asked no one in particular. "What's the update with Luo?"

The junior officer relays what he hears. "Luo is currently engaging the enemy... wait, I'm hearing background noise." He looks up. "It's language, but it's not Chinese."

Field Officer Pan resumed his unwelcome pacing. Despite his assurances, Luo was clearly insufficient for the task. Pan would have to intervene. His superiors would be displeased, though. His orders from high command were to not engage any forces until after they had crossed 116 degrees east, and only then if they traveled westward towards Mischief Reef or another installation.

Of course, a third factor was the reputation that an engagement could provide. Victory at sea at such a dire moment would yield quite the amount of political capital for Pan's own career. No one promotes the officer who follows orders and stands idly by. Glory awaited.

"We will engage our adversary," Pan resolved.

"Excellent," the captain reassured. "Shall we approach the light beams? The floating ship?"

Pan held up his chin. Just at that moment, the ghost vessel blinked out of existence. ASEAN could very well take either position. Then again, he didn't have to choose immediately. "Plot a course for due east, on the dot," the field officer announced. "I suppose we shall return the fire of whoever hits us."

Audience Hall, Sison Auditorium, Municipality of Lingayen - 10/11/2022, 18:53 UTC+8

Having arrived earlier than strictly necessary- of course, with Hannie in tow- Kaitlyn was content to spend her meager free time stressing herself out over how horrifyingly wrong this next mission could go, especially with leadership like Noel's in effect... Granted the admiral was a factor to consider now, and one she was privately thankful for.

When the briefing did start, her stress levels decided that was the perfect moment to turn that dial from 'This won't be good' to 'Jesus Christ this will be really bad.' And then crazy shit happened; apparently a flying battleship played now, the Supply and Stalwart were already under attack, and Miss Lei cloned herself. She'd felt uneasy at that casual gesture of hers, but she didn't even know what to feel when she saw the already overpowered Arms Master Ditto herself.

She stared for perhaps too long at the copy. Does she wear anything under that goop, or is it procedurally generated when she emerged? Entirely appropriate thoughts for a private about to be tossed to the sharks. Or, who knows, maybe krakens really did exist? She wouldn't be surprised if giant tentacles emerged from the deep to start dragging down battleships. She'd probably flip out, though.

After she stewed in these thoughts for a good while- and, more importantly, stopped staring at Qingshe- she stood up and approached the admiral. The situation was rapidly escalating, and she'd rather be aware of her functions sooner rather than as she's being thrust into battle.

"Admiral..." She cleared her throat, glancing sidelong at Myron, then back to the man before her. "Private Kaitlyn Price. I was wondering what, specifically, my function in this mission will be should I be deployed." Or, rather, when she's deployed. All hands on deck, right?

Adrián Abasolo held up his index finger. The situation was too tense for multitasking, but he sensed a brief window on the horizon. At a certain point, the Arms Masters would be too preoccupied with combat to give him an effective report. A reasonable checkpoint reached, he dismounted a muffler on his headphones and looked out to Kaitlyn.

Military experience was on occasion as valuable as supernatural powers. Abasolo didn't usually improvise but nonetheless had a general vision. "Eyes and ears. You have permission to coordinate the team, and to assist the captains on deck as necessary. Report back any issues your team might have."

Of course, if Kaitlyn had better ideas, he bore no attachment to this impromptu task assignment. "Subject to your discretion. Is that satisfactory?" Did she have a communications device, like a radio? She'd bring it up if she didn't, he supposed. Worst came to worst, she'd wrestle the comms device from the captain of her ship. The admiral needed to return to monitoring his operation.

Her team? She's not a team leader, she's a private! He should get a corporal to do this, or a lieutenant. She fidgeted in place, considering the order. "Y-yes sir," she stuttered, not the least bit confident in her own abilities. She still had to ask, though. "To be clear, sir, you're putting me in charge of all of Team B?" Certainly someone is more qualified than her? Miss Lei, maybe.

The admiral's current alternatives for leadership were a civilian, a PLA turncoat, and a child. It was clear from her demeanor, though, a justification wasn't what this private required. She needed assurance and calm. "Correct." He double checked his monitor for precisely five seconds before returning to the conversation. Hopefully that gave Private Price time to reach the "acceptance" stage of grief. "At least its coordination. Each member in the team has an ample amount of autonomy." Certainly for the military. "Report to me if you encounter difficulties."

Iker had patiently waited in his assigned team's seating arrangement. Still, he figured that, so long as he was readily available to... touch Myron's shield? he could be anywhere in the facility. In the meantime, the current conversation piqued his interest. He arose and approached the two. "Any developments I should be made aware of?"

Kaitlyn started, turning wide eyes on the... Actually, she wasn't sure who he was, but yet he was oddly familiar... She should probably be more aware of who is on 'her' team, so she turned to face him properly. "Private Kaitlyn Price, acting team leader for Team B," she said, channeling her inner Corporal Castro.

She sized him up, switching gears. Average height and build. Intelligent gaze. A Support role, more than likely. A Rogue. Maybe a Paladin? Hmm... No, probably not the Paladin type. "I'm sorry, can I get your name and rank, sir?"

Iker blinked. "Oh, so I report to you, then! Pleased to make your acquaintance." He stuck out a hand for a handshake. "Iker Orozco. I'm a 'Mister,' if that qualifies as a rank. Volunteer. I suppose that would make me a private?"

The admiral had returned to his other duties but still afforded a slight diversion. "We're in the military, Mr. Orozco. Please salute your superior."

Iker thought about it, then provided a weak but passable hand salute. "Yes'm!"

The admiral continued, "If you require temporary ranks to reflect your current statuses, Ensign Zabala can arrange for that." He nodded to a distant female officer. "Any other questions, Private Price?"

'Mister' Orozco. That's fantastic. Iker's salute discomforted Kaitlyn, but she chose not to comment. "N-no, sir." She had so many questions. Why her? What if she failed? What were the consequences for retreating, If that was even an option?

What if someone died under her command?

Kaitlyn paled as she heard the sound of crunching glass but quickly returned to reality. "Mister Orozco, do you have any special talents?" Proper management required knowledge of his field abilities. "Also, I assume you have been provided a radio? I'll need to be able to keep in contact with you in order to coordinate."

She glanced aside at Myron and Miss Lei, but even if she technically commanded them... They were practically beyond her control. At least, she didn't expect Miss Lei to follow her instructions.

... Come to think of it, this was a pretty unique position she'd been put in. In this moment, she actually outranked her, didn't she?

Iker scratched the back of his head. "I must've forgotten to obtain one. I doubt my cellular phone will have much benefit."

"Ensign Mendoza, Requisitions," Abasolo commented. His eyes glued to his screen and he muffled his ears again as Myron explained to him the nature of his newest enemy asset.

"As for my 'special talents,' I have in my possession an ethereal battleaxe, which can manipulate something of whatever material it hacks into." He nodded. "I would provide a demonstration, but I fear it wouldn't assuage any tensions in headquarters currently. I'll be striking a number of hulls on deck, I surmise." He smiled at the half excuse for comedy.

Right. An Arms Master. "Let's head towards Requisitions while we talk, Mister Orozco," she said, taking lead and hoping that her patchwork aura of authority was enough to keep his attention. "So you're able to manipulate physical objects so long as you strike it with your... Battleaxe?"

He really didn't look like the axe type. "What's the range of this ability, and to what extent can you manipulate these objects? Can you only change the properties of materials? Add properties?"

"Certainly," Iker concurred. He walked with Kaitlyn out of the admiral's field of view. "Roughly a kilometer or so. I have to envision before I can manipulate, so either I must see it or a helpful ally must describe it to me. I can't change its properties, just physically shift and shape-"

He surveyed the number of side stations. "Say, do you know which one's Ensign Mendoza?"

Nope. "I'm sure we can find them through some trial and error," she guessed. She'd been anxious to get out of the admiral's hair. He seemed really busy. She approached the nearest station. "Excuse me, do you know where I can find Ensign Mendoza? We're looking for Requisitions."

The woman turned around and studied Kaitlyn Price over as if wondering why she'd been interrupted. The quiet condescension was palpable, though not overstated. “Three stations, that way." She pointed to a male who, squat and muscular, much better fit the archetype of "axe man." Included in his station were several unlabeled boxes of equipment. They were open, though their contents were indiscernible from this distance.

"Well, there we are!" Iker quipped. He continued, "Anyways, I can only change shape and physical location, for the most part. If the target changes state or chemical properties, I can't control it anymore. I have experimented with humans on occasion." He concluded as if no further explanation was necessary.

Kaitlyn looked him over, her expression blank. "... And what were the results of this human experimentation?" she asked, much more calm than she felt. Were all Arms Masters freaks? Well, sans Hannie or... Actually, Hannie was her only normal Arms Master contact.

She carried their conversation along towards Requisitions, pondering the morality of her partner. "Also, and I'm sorry I have to say this, but there will be no 'manipulation' of humans today, Mister Orozco." Now she remembered him. Hannie mentioned him the other day.

"Well, certainly. I don't think the situation would call for it, unless we somehow draw danger-close to an enemy vessel. Apology accepted nonetheless," Iker commented matter-of-factly.

Upon seeing the two Arms Masters approach, Ensign Gonzalez rose to his feet. "Welcome! What do you require?"

"Radio communications, please," Iker ordered. In case Kaitlyn planned to order the device on Iker's behalf, he paid due respect to his superior. "Apologies if I spoke out of line; it was not my intention."

As Ensign Gonzalez picked up a military grade walkie talkie from the box and calibrated it for combat use, a thought surfaced in Iker's head. "If it assuages your concerns, Kaitlyn, no harm is done to living creatures as a direct result of my powers." He held up a finger. "And, and I tested it on smaller things first, like rodents and whatnot. And the humans were voluntary. There was quite a line of participants, actually; the curiosity of lumberjacks would surprise you."

Gonzalez slammed the butt of the comms onto the table beside Iker. "Alright, there you go! Need anything else?"

"I'm sure..." Kaitlyn said, uneasy. She waited for Iker to retrieve the device, then took him back to their waiting room. Perhaps striking up conversation with the man was a mistake. "Alright... Mister Orozco, you may take a seat. I need to properly assess the situation before I make any decisions." Without waiting to hear his people-pleasing response, she turned her back on him, hands on her hips, and returned to the admiral.

"Yes'm!" Iker seated on command, an express endorsement of Kaitlyn's leadership. Still, he surveyed the admiral's update.

Aaaand that's about when that power trip ended and Kaitlyn returned to being the useless private Price she was. She cleared her throat. "S-sir, do you have an update for me on the current situation? I need to be aware of what's going on before we take any action."

The admiral nodded in acknowledgment but didn't yet turn to face his subordinate. "Outside what we've currently engaged, the PLA fleets don't yet appear to be attracted to either our diversion or our main fleet. We have spotted a couple- excuse me."

The admiral returned to his headphones. A flash of confusion shot across his face before being drowned in discipline. He chose to accept the absurdity he heard at face value, relaying the information accordingly. Why not? Arms Masters were involved. "Supply, Stalwart, follow recommendations. Other vessels, make way."

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:01 UTC+8

Captain Kennedy heard the instructions loud and clear. She muttered briefly, "This is going to kill our navigation," then barked loudly, "Lockwood! Kill all secondary power!" She manned the comms personally. "This is the Supply. Be advised, we are taking evasive actions to port." Her final utterance: "Port, full rudder!"

The big hulking ship tilted slightly to the side; the ships beside and behind it struggled to make way for the shadow that blocked out the stars above them. Nonetheless, the evasive maneuvers were successful, if stressful.

Captain Kennedy restored her demeanor on deck and pulled out her binoculars, curious if such a juke succeeded. The floating ship was a mesmerizing sight indeed in night waters like these. "Prepare to return starboard to original heading, on my mark."

Audience Hall, Sison Auditorium, Municipality of Lingayen - 10/11/2022, 19:01 UTC+8

The admiral looked up to Kaitlyn. "An Arms Master in a floating sloop-of-war is trying to ram the auxiliaries." Ramming tactics hadn't been relevant for millennia, but he chose to trust that his enemy was rational in her tactics. "Are you ready to deploy, Private Price?"

What the fuck? They just get crazier. "Yes, sir." They had their radios, functioning eyeballs, and little else. Well, asides from super powers, but only Iker was likely to use those actively. "Mister Orozco, Hannie, ready yourselves. We're about to deploy."

Readdressing the admiral, she focused on the upcoming situation. "Which ships require our immediate attention?"

Iker stood up promptly. "At the ready."

Depending on the speed of this magical sloop, Team B would either arrive far too late or have time aplenty. Little possibility existed in between. "Supply and Stalwart, coordinates 10.26943, 116.27825 and 10.26774, 116.28004."

Iker raised his hand before the admiral could say "Go." "If it's not too much bother, might I take a vanguard ship? My abilities have limited range, a kilometer or so."

Last-minute requests were a bother but momentarily not too much bother. He locked eyes with Orozco. "Only with approval from Private Price. She coordinates your activity." He researched his screen. "If she so chooses to grant approval, the Conrado Yap is two ships ahead of the Stalwart at 10.26304, 116.271157." He looked at Kaitlyn. "I trust your judgment."

Iker nodded. "Thanks; I didn't want to push anything." He saluted. "Awaiting orders."

Kaitlyn wasn't sure she trusted her own judgement, but she didn't really have room to complain. "Request granted," she said, trying to sort out those nautical numbers. For some reason, she was reminded of Minecraft. I wonder if Orozco could turn an enemy ship into a water creeper? Tsk... Banishing thoughts of ships exploding with particle effects, she fetched Hannie, then headed towards Myron, already having mostly dismissed Iker.

She told them what radio frequency they'd use, then picked the Supply. Maybe she didn't have amazing super powers, but her extra gun would safeguard the fleet.

Also... She was told some crazy motherfucker was trying to ram them. She did not want to be on the ship that received that kind of attention.

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:03 UTC+8

Rhiannon Kennedy's binoculars were fixated on Mei Yuanyuan's craft. Rapid dots of light streamed upward as they attempted to damage the old ghost ship. Typhoon Weapon Systems weren't meant to target aircraft. Then again, sloops were never meant to fly.

"Launch the helicopters, captain?" announced a shipman.

"And alert even more to our presence? Not yet." Were this a common aircraft from the PLAN or the PLAAF, her position would already be compromised. This, however, offered more leniency and required more tact.

A few stories above them, atop a small metal tower, Kaitlyn and Hannie zapped into existence. The radar systems operated within reach. They stood together on a balcony, protected by metal rails. They saw the bridge beneath them, well, at least its roof. To reach the roof they'd have to descend a ladder for a few stories, and from there they'd need to take a few steep stairs to enter the bridge itself.

A couple sailors beneath them noticed the newcomers. One squinted his eyes, unsure whether to believe them or not. "Uh…"

Faintly nauseous and deeply disoriented by the complete shift in her environment - somehow she hadn't expected the instant change in humidity - Hannie stumbled straight into the railing with a yip. Her first time on a boat was... well, a lot of things she hadn't hoped for already. Casting around her surroundings, she met a sailor's eyes, and they looked at each other equally surprised. She waved. He waved back. It was uncomfortable. She looked to Kaitlyn instead.

'Uh' was right.

From shifting earth to celestial objects spontaneously generating in the sky, Kaitlyn had thought she'd experienced the worst of it. But no, Myron's method of translocation was nothing like teleportation. Not the teleportation that began and ended with a classic 'pop.' Luckily, she suffered enough disorientation on the daily from her 'condition', so she didn't get it as badly as Hannie did. Focusing on her surroundings, she gently took Hannie's hand- squeezed it, and gave her a reassuring smile- before peeking over the railings-

And oh, wow, ships are tall. Building tall. Fatal falling height tall. "... Hello." She blinked, focusing on the man below her. Don't think about it. "Private Kaitlyn Price of Task Force Obsidian, acting leader of Team B. C-can I see the captain of this vessel?"

A sailor kept staring in disbelief, but the other descended stairs and made his way into the bridge. It took half a minute, but eventually a gentleman in a sailor's cap came out with a bullhorn. His thick Australian accent was readily apparent. "The captain can't leave the bridge right now. Let's get you planted." He smacked the stunned sailor on the shoulder. When the sailor asked for orders, the man simply pointed up the ladder.

The floating ghost ship was still careening towards the Stalwart, and the spectacle of glowing hot ammunition lighting the sky shone around them. The sailor reached the top and scratched the back of his head. "Hey, hello, um, I'm Seaman Murray. You need to descend, yes?"

"Y-yes…" She always hated ladders. What if you fell? They have what amounts to magic now, that Occult Programming thing. Why can't they build portals arrays nowadays? "Hannie, maybe you should go first? Mr. Murray can probably help you towards the bottom." While she forestalled the inevitable, she pulled out a pair of binoculars to get a better look at that flying antique. What the hell... ?

Hannie made the common mistake of looking down but didn’t see why everyone said she shouldn't. It was more comfortable than the waving. She shrugged her shoulders and eased herself down the ladder, the scarf of her combat winter wear flapping in the wind and occasionally going for her face, as she took one step after another on the compelling journey to the deck.

Seaman Murray shrugged. "She descends fine, and I doubt that you need any help. Follow me, alright?" He followed Hannie towards the roof of the bridge.

The gentleman, the bullhorn by his side, looked Hannie over once she fully descended, a confused expression on his face. "Hello, Missy. Shall we get you situated in quarters?" While he gave his best impression of a caretaker, it was readily apparent that children weren't his forte. He nodded to his subordinate. "Murray, take her to galley, would you? Give her something sweet."

"Huh?" Turn around and everybody's moving on without you! Kaitlyn was quick to follow after the two, briefly forgetting her fear of ladders and replacing it with a broader fear for Hannie. Even though they're at sea, they were on a warship, and if Battleship taught her anything, it was that you could never predict when the next torpedo was gonna blast a hunk of metal to Davy Jones's.

Again, she wondered where the kraken was supposed to be. Realistically speaking, none would appear out here. But there had to be sea monsters if magic was real. "S-sorry for the delay... Sir."

Hannie stood briefly frozen, looking among three different people to listen to. It had been Kaitlyn for the past week. Then a big military countryman said she should follow... the other guy. Umm... okay, the math worked out to attaching to Murray. Unless Kaitlyn said no. Her eyes darted, and then she took a careful step to Murray. She saluted; it seemed appropriate.

The gentleman chuckled as he returned Hannie's salute. "Good girl!" A proper salute was too advanced for him to criticize her hand posture, but he showed Hannie by example.

Realizing Hannie's internal struggle, Kaitlyn knelt before her, offering a smile and mussing up her hair. "It's okay, Hannie. I'm sure Mr. Murray will take good care of you." Her eyes briefly flicked up towards the seaman, and her expression told him there was only one correct answer to that assertion. She returned to Hannie. "Get yourself a snack and help out around the ship if you can. There's gotta be something a smart young girl can do here ~"

Cue doting and playful cheek pinching… God, she's so cute. "Remember, if you need help, call me... Or Mr. Orozco if I'm otherwise occupied."

She shrugged then rose to her feet, nodding respectfully towards Murray. He didn't give off the impression of an irresponsible adult.

One could hear inside the bridge the captain barking orders. "Starboard, full rudder. Steady as she goes. Status on the Typhoon."

The ship turned dramatically. Ships behind and starboard side began to decelerate and make way. Nearby sailors grabbed the railing. It took Murray a moment to remember Hannie's safety rather than merely his own, and he stabilized her after a few seconds of gripping the rails. "Don't want you to fall off the side there, now!" he quipped.

The gentleman regained his composure as the ship righted. "Murray, take her downstairs." Murray collected Hannie like a sack of potatoes and headed off to accomplish his duty.

Murray dodged past his fellow crew in his special mission. "So, Hannie, what's your favorite thing to eat? We've got a lot of options!"

Managing a wave as she passed out of sight in Murray's grip, the misfortunate child asked herself why everyone wanted to feed her all the time. Out loud, she loosely emitted, "Iuhno."

Murray took the null data at face value and entered the kitchen. Simple, quick, and, most importantly, sweet. "How about marmalade on toast, lass?" The blast of autocannons roared above him, which he forcefully ignored as he pulled out a toaster and sliced bread. If the threat was this apparent, the tot's fright must have been unfathomable. Distractions were called for. "Say, Hannie, do you know of any good songs?"

Hannie didn't quite ignore the cannons as Murray had, evidenced by a short jump and the appearance of a weapon in her hand. Today's style was a dark iron blade with a worn leather grip, looking like a pre-industrial hunter's knife. She was drawn back, wide-eyed, by his second question.

"S... songs?" Her Noble Arm hissed and crackled, starting to emit its usual mist. Hannie stared at the source of the blasts, the question forgotten.

"Yea, songs." Upon hearing hissing and crackling, Murray reinspected the toaster. "Damn navy equipment," he muttered to himself, then realizing that a minor was present. He turned around. "Please don't tell Miss Kaitlyn I said that."

He set the toaster aside and resumed his work, foregoing the toast, instead spreading marmalade on regular bread. He arranged them on a large plate, set them on a table, sat Hannie on a chair, and positioned himself across from her. He felt hunger just looking at it but resolved to let Hannie have the first bite. "Alright, there it is; eat up. If you know no songs, I do."

Hannie shifted her weight, coming to the understanding that she probably wasn't safe here. As Murray talked and she barely listened, she eventually realized what was in her hand, and shook it away like a bug. She allowed herself to be walked and sat, looking very lost and very uncomfortable. She took the bread but didn’t eat. If she knew a song, she didn’t name it.

Murray couldn’t exactly return to his superior officer and inform him that the kid won't eat. The blame would fall on Murray; Sir would only assume that Murray fell short in his duties, either due to incompetence or willful disobedience. Besides, the small desserts looked quite delectable, promising, tempting... Perhaps he would lead by example.

"See? It's, it's good, yeah?" He took a bite of his own selection. Normally it was no bother to talk with his mouth full, but in the presence of a lady, a young lady, he swallowed completely before continuing. "It's not poison, luv. Go on, try some!" He quickly finished his dessert.

A voice piped up on Kaitlyn's radio. "Iker Orozco. I've been rematerialized on the Conrado Yap's pinnacle. I've descended a nearby ladder and am now safely on the bridge. We've spotted Mei's vessel and are attempting to neutralize it. Do you presently have particular orders, or dealer's choice?"

Kaitlyn clung to those rails like her life depended on it- because it probably did. You're a coward. How could the admiral have ever put you in charge? Kaitlyn grimaced as she righted herself, calmly taking out her radio. "Continue at your discretion until further notice. I still need to get a lay of the land... Or sea, as it were."

The gentleman saluted the mid-twenties arrival. "Private Price, I'm told. Please, follow me into the bridge."

Your orders, captain? Oh! That's right, now that you're the leader, it's your fault if somebody dies. Kaitlyn's heart beat faster, and she turned to the seaman near her. "Yes, sir." Get ahold of yourself, Price. Miss Lei and the others can take care of the serious stuff. You have to be the lookout. She sighed, then followed the man. Focus on the mission.

The captain offered a hand as he descended the stairs. "Captain Kennedy, I present Private Kaitlyn Price, acting leader of Task Force Obsidian's Team B. Arms Masters, I believe."

Rhiannon's eyes, once inserted into her binoculars, disconnected themselves and fixated on Kaitlyn. "Private? No matter. Where are your Arms Masters presently? Do you have personal orders?" All eyes that were currently unoccupied now fixed on the private. In the quiet, the defense systems rat-a-tat-tatted.

. . .
. . . .
. . . . .

Oh God. Kaitlyn froze like a deer in headlights. She'd be sick. Or faint. Or something. Say something! "Uh... I-I'm sorry…"

I'm sorry I'm all you've got. I'm not even qualified for this. Clearing her throat, she injected some confidence into her voice, focusing on the dull roar of fire and looking at each crew member. She couldn't fail them. "I'm not an Arms Master myself, but the rest are. Miss Lei Qingshe is currently aboard the Stalwart. Myron, as far as I understand, has remained on-base," although she supposed... She could summon him to the battlefield now, couldn't she? Miss Lei had her shadows in two places. Or is that how this worked? She'd need to ask.

"Iker Orozco is aboard the Conrado Yap, attempting to neutralize the enemy Arms Master. And Hannie Cavalet... Will be providing support, outside of combat." That seemed as good a report as any. Was there anything else she needed to say? "As for personal orders? I'm monitoring the battle." She had no idea what anything in this room did. "Can your special tools or personnel assist me with this?"

The captain nodded, confused as to why Kaitlyn specified her lack of superpowers. It was perfectly natural for management to lack the skills of subordinates. "I don't have powers, either!" she smiled. "Excellent. I presume you're here about the sail ship." She selected a subordinate. "Contact the Yap and the Stalwart; tell them to expect company."

Kennedy then rattled off her ensigns, pointing to each of them as she addressed them. "Tomlinson, restore secondary power sources. Private Price, I introduce Maynard on Radar, Tomlinson on Sonar, and Lockwood on Electronics. Herberts!" A tall, tattooed woman stood at attention. She appeared as if she could kill with a mere glance. "Ensign Herberts will be your personal attendant."

Meanwhile, the comms ensign hailed his corvette counterpart. "Yes, Conrado Yap, be advised you have an allied Arms Master onboard. Do not engage."

"We know," replied a dejected Filipino. The bridge heard Iker conversing with the captain in the background. It wasn't a heated argument but nonetheless loquacious and fast talking. "A moment." More talking, then: "Can you identify the material of the enemy sloop?"

The Australian communique looked at Kennedy, who shook her head. "Wood, perhaps?"

The communique relayed. "Negative... possibly wood?"

Kennedy returned to her guest. "Regardless, does that suffice, Private Price?"

"... Yes, it does. Thank you, captain." It was only then Kaitlyn realized how many women operated on this vessel. She was used to terms such as 'seaman', and up until now, she'd only seen men aboard. It was... Refreshing to know that the fairer sex had not been entirely sidelined for entitled muscle heads.

Turning to Herberts, she offered her a hand and a smile. "Pleasure to be working with you, Miss Herberts." She paused, wondering if that greeting came off a bit too enthusiastic or weird.

"Yeh," muttered Ensign Herberts, the Australian twang sounding even in her monosyllabic response. She returned the hand gesture. Whether her lips formed a genuine smile or a slight smirk was indiscernible. Otherwise, her face was a stone.

Regardless, Kaitlyn would check Sonar and Radar next. She needed to know who was where, and if there was anything pressing that needed to be conveyed. Miss Lei, at least, benefitted from some extra input.

Tomlinson pointed out a few objects on the screen's perimeter. "I'm currently following three bogeys underwater. They're moving slowly and not giving off extreme readings. They're either biologics or enemy submarines at extremely low power. I doubt that the PLA tolerates aquatic life in these waters, but they're not an immediate threat either way."

Maynard was on his headset. Noticing that Private Price was over his shoulder alongside Herberts, he preemptively spoke in a rather loud voice, clutching his mufflers to raise them. "You want a listen?"

Three unknowns? This couldn’t be good. She relayed this news over the radio, then considered the implications. That is, she was considering the implications before she was handed the mufflers.

"... Sure."