[h3]Collaboration between [color=Cadetblue]Fuka[/color], [b]Jaromir[/b], and [color=aba000]Hamazasp[/color][/h3] 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. [color=Cadetblue]“Hey boss, can you help? Won’t take beyond a few minutes.”[/color] 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, [color=aba000]“Certainly, what’s the issue?”[/color] 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. [color=Cadetblue]“Oh there’s no problem, I’m just down a partner: here, follow me.”[/color] 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. [color=Cadetblue]“We’re going to the crew lounge, there’s some ratty shag carpet or something there. It’ll cushion our falls.”[/color] 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. [color=aba000]“Pardon, how might I locate the lounge?”[/color] 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. [color=aba000]“Very well; I'm available,"[/color] he stated. [color=aba000]"What activity have you organized?”[/color] [color=Cadetblue]“Sparring! It’s better to practice with live bodies and you look tough enough. No head shots obviously,”[/color] 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. [color=aba000]“No hard feelings, I suppose; you appear well versed on the subject.”[/color] Quite capable of being competitive without spoiling her fun, she'd kick the gentleman’s ass to keep her ego intact. [color=Cadetblue]“I’m pretty good but hey, it’s all fun: no hard feelings.”[/color] 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. [color=Cadetblue]“Y’know, I realized something.”[/color] 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. [color=Cadetblue]“I never got your name.”[/color] 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. [color=aba000]“Sulser, Hamazasp."[/color] [color=Cadetblue]"Nakano, Fuka,"[/color] she reciprocated. The Taurian arose and promptly excused himself, [color=aba000]"Pardon, my sleeping quarters await.”[/color] 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 [i]good[/i] 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. [color=aba000]“Late night: the Draconis girl asked me to… you know what, not worth it.”[/color] 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. [b]”You look like hell.”[/b] Jaromir grunted as he cut up a piece of breakfast sausage and chomped. [b]”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.”[/b] [color=aba000]“Party, my entire behind,”[/color] Hamazasp stated, rubbing the mentioned object. [color=aba000]“I know Kurita customs for festivities, and that wasn’t it,”[/color] he sighed. [color=aba000]“I'd show you the bruise here, but I figure it’s implied. Who practices hand combat for armored warfare?"[/color] He plugged his fork into his mouth, weathering the fatigued mental storm inside. He swallowed. [color=aba000]“A samurai, that’s who. Gosh dang, that entire warrior culture demands an overhaul.”[/color] He took a sip. [color=aba000]“Don’t tell any Draconis I said that. Yourself?”[/color] Jaromir suppressed a snort as he swigged his orange juice. Not concentrate, either: a miracle of God. [b]”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.”[/b] He spoke after a couple more bites. [b]”Where’d you get your training from, anyway? Gonna hazard a guess, Combine?”[/b] Hamazasp planted a fork into a sausage. [color=aba000]“No training whatsoever.”[/color] The introductory course from years ago didn’t count. [color=aba000]“She merely informed me she required an individual for matters that required cushions in the crew lounge, and I figured-”[/color] he pointed his sausage at Jaromir. [color=aba000]“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.”[/color] He ate, then quietly finished his meal's protein centerpiece. [color=aba000]“Nonetheless, inform me if you’d appreciate assistance of a separate, nonphysical substance. What of your endeavors?”[/color] 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. [b]”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.”[/b] Hamazasp reset his fork. His voice bore a softer volume than his words implied. [color=aba000]“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.”[/color] He relaxed and eyed his hashbrown. [color=aba000]“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.”[/color] 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. [color=aba000]“Anything in the intel strike you as curious? I noticed a few details in places, but nothing worth bringing to attention.”[/color] [b]”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.”[/b] The immediate question on Hamazasp’s mind was what unskilled labor managed to infiltrate the hiring halls, but he tabled that musing for later. [color=aba000]“Thanks; I perused it prior, but another review seems tempting.”[/color] Jaromir finished his coffee and returned his mug. [b]”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.”[/b] [color=aba000]“Same goes both ways!”[/color] Hamazasp smiled, then shook his head. [color=aba000]“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,”[/color] he chuckled. [color=aba000]“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.”[/color] He raised his juice glass to that notion. [b]”Your only other meeting in this outfit so far involved you getting punched out. That bar’s so low it’s underground.”[/b] 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. [b]”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.”[/b] [color=aba000]“Concurred; Morning,”[/color] 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.