"Ghost, it's your time to go. Be ready to broadcast on the emergency frequency."
"Roger, beacon is coming online now. I hope it'll reach them. Fell a wee bit out of range of my cameras," replied a high pitched female voice, flipping a few switches to send commands to the hidden antennae. The panel briefly flashed to acknowledge the commands, and faded just as quickly, leaving the woman with no name sitting in her powered down machine, looking out towards the barely visible lake.

"Aight, ye Coalition dolts, as soon as we send out the signal, ye move in to keep a close eye on the situation, got me? Don't shoot em or try anything funny, and stay in cover. This ain't some UEE newbie squad we dealin' with. We need em alive," Ackerman said, almost yelling into the microphone at the two 'official' representatives of the Coalition on this wonderful little side adventure. How he hated working with some corporate fools who insisted on sending their own lackeys along with the mission to ensure it got done 'correctly'. He wouldn't lose sleep if they managed to catch a bullet or a sword to the cockpit, but it was best to cover all his bases to get paid.

"Bould, I hope ye've covered yourself well, the fools almost landed on top of ye there. Give em a minute to respond, and if we don't like what they have to say, put some holes in places where it won't kill em, or destroy the machines. For some reason they're needed alive." No answer came forth, as expected. The passive receivers would likely pick the message up, and if they didn't, Ackerman knew his team had drilled this since they first got the contract.

"Hit it Ghost!" he yelled. He could hear the woman scoff - she was only a few meters away from him, sitting in that open cockpit-, but moments later, the microphone in his hand came to life. Hooked to a long wire that ran all the way to the beacon set up earlier, it made detecting the actual source of the transmission almost impossible.

[color=f7976a]"Dearly beloved, -perhaps soon to be deceased- members of the UEE 101st. We respectfully ask that ye disengage all your weaponry and  get out of your rusty tin cans, lest ye want to resemble the finest of swiss cheeses in a minute or so. If ye do, we'll make sure we get yer friend out o' his predicament and transport ye all safely to some warm lodgin', a pint o' two and the welcoming arms 'o the Coalition. If ye choose to disobey this simple suggestion and invitation to drink, the units surrounding ye will be forced to open fire with trained accuracy. Ye've got about 60 seconds to decide. If we detect yer mechs powerin' down, we'll treat ye with the utmost hospitality, scout's honour. If we don't, we'll just be taking yer tin cans with neat holes in the center. I don't want trouble with the famous 101st, but I got me a large stack 'o cash tellin' me what to do."[/color] The microphone clicked and fizzed as Ackerman threw it out of the cockpit and into a tree. The wire, as programmed, quickly started to incinerate, the sparks running away towards the beacon. With a smile on his face, Ackerman grabbed some old binoculars and peered out into the distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the upcoming events. It was only when he heard the distant sound of engines that the mercenary switched his view and sighed, watching the two greenskins in their Ferir MkIIs slowly moving towards the three downed mechs, not even bothering to hide.

"Looks like a good day fer some Coalition burgers."