QJT

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Vault 48: The Jack's Rebellion

"They engage the generator!" rung across the corridor.

Faye recognized that voice: Walter, Ten of Spades and a reliable confidante. She'd scheduled an assembly with her faction amongst the bunks; that information must have leaked. As she scanned the sleeping quarters, her fellow Vaulters' faces reflected her concerns. The placid council retrieved armaments with a cool vigor. She handpicked the five readiest: "Doris, Uriah, Carol, Kyle, and Eric. Follow me. The rest of you, assemble a replacement wave."

"Damn, my shotgun's jammed," Eric lamented.

"So you four will accompany me," Faye addressed the remnant. She obtained her own pistol and headed out. The radicals' single power station lay tragically a few paces from the front lines. Their only margin was a minuscule strength center which Walt guarded. She hoped he bore the tenacity to withstand a proper assault until the cavalry relieved him.

Faye stopped at the generator's entry and ushered her vanguard in. The thunderous shock of emptied cartridges reverberated throughout the halls. Tardy stragglers occupied the preceding hydroponics garden, anxious for their chance at glory. A pixie cut brunette marched through the doorway; Faye nabbed her collar and dragged her back. "You are dismissed, Nancy."

Nancy held up her laser rifle. "Granted, I wasn't the most competent operator, but I managed the circuitry here. I want to defend my workplace!"
"It's not that," Faye explained. "You turned nineteen a month ago. I won't expend you."
"So what? You're 24!" Nancy retorted. "I order you, from a King to a Jack!"

The distant thump on the ground signaled Walter's final act of valor. In olden times, Faye couldn't refuse Nancy's command, but rank mattered little nowadays. Far too strong to resist, Faye pried her underling from her energy weapon. "My decision is resolute. Paul, confine her."

"Yes, Ma'am," the Nine of Diamonds affirmed. He wrangled Nancy's arm behind her and pressed her against the garden's confines as his commanding officer vanished into the next enclosure. "Remain still, Nan. Don't muck it up again for the professionals." Nancy resisted for a moment but limply resigned. Confused about Nancy's sudden submission, Paul remained wary of breakout. Amidst the sounds and shakes of conflict, his keen senses detected not resistance but a slight tink, tinking.

He loosened his grip and, looking down the hall, relinquished completely. His face grew pale, and words escaped him. He unholstered his revolver and directed it with trembling hands. Finally, he summoned his nerve to yaup: "Radscorpion!"

Faye heard battle cries before her and shouts of terror behind her. An Ace assaulter tromped in and identified a nook within which he hid from bullet fire. Eager to calm the storm, Faye boldly stomped forward, grabbed her adversary out of his cover by his shirt, and tossed him into the dumbbells outside. Her allies' supporting projectiles kept her immune. Overwhelming force pushed the Aces' minions safely past the weight room. "Hold!" she commanded her supporters as she investigated the rear.

Calmness she would have. Upon return, the entire hydroponics section was dead or dying, including the beast. Clutching a baseball sized hole in her gut, Nan staggered towards her leader. Her former captor had died protecting her, judging from his lifeless corpse encompassed by chitin claws.

Faye reached out her arms, and Nancy fell into them. As the King of Spades was lowered, Faye analyzed her for hope of potential salvation. She found none. Her sibling Eve's faint soprano arose from beyond the weight center. "What's the issue? Do you request truce?"
"Scorpion!" Faye announced.
A moment's silence. "You have three minutes' respite to attend to the wounded. Afterwards, we shall advance to occupy the reactor."

Faye grit her teeth. This disaster handed the opposition an insurmountable military and numbers advantage. A secure monopoly of power could halt any food production and water purification systems in the facility. Her cause in this civil war was doomed to suffocate to extinction.

"Flee this place," Nancy weakly interrupted Faye's musings. "Henry's legacy is lost without you."
Faye smiled gently. "And go where, Nancy? The Aces control the elevators, and the outdoors is wilderness and Green."
Nancy pointed above her. "Use the-" she coughed, "the vents. You're thin enough to traverse them, and they lead to open air."
Faye's gaze followed Nancy's direction. Wishful thinking, but not altogether implausible. She shook her head. "I should care for you first."
A wheeze prevented Nancy from hearing Faye's protest. "See? Handy advice. If just for that, my life was worthwhile, right?" She briefly flashed a grin. Her countenance slackened, and her muscles went limp.

Uriah appeared beside her, his heavy flamethrower luminous with heat. "She speaks truth, you know. Try the Vegas Meld. Floyd was equally Hinshaw's apprentice. If not support, you'll at least find compassion and haven."
Faye's fallen tears soaked Nancy's dress. "That her sacrifice not be vanity. What leeway can you provide?"
Uriah shrugged. "Eve adores negotiation. Possibly an hour. That failing, I have a flamer. Half that."
Faye nodded. "Recall Doris and Kyle. Some parts of me can't fit in the vent otherwise."
Uriah chuckled. "Yeah, that'll be quite the squeeze. I'd love to learn how the hijinks played out, but I probably won't survive to bid you safe journeys. With that, instead, adieu." He disappeared. "Eve! Fancy a parley?"

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

[Charisma: 7]
[Speech: 60]
Success!

Marjorie had departed when Danny responded, "Indeed, a pleasure to... Have me for dinner, yes..."

Danny refrained from dropping his jaw, but his wide eyes betrayed unfocused panic. Physically, the don exposed himself. On a whim, the loose acquaintance might hurdle the table and strangle Omerta, beheading the criminal syndicate by the time security reacted. Impossible, of course; the notion dodged Danny's mind entirely. Psychologically, a handful of brisk quips from the "King of Sin" paralyzed the Nine of Clubs in equal portions trepidation and contemplation. What mastery. The grizzled rogue master's secret to prosperity was readily apparent.

Daniel blinked to refresh his mental faculties, which sounded logical alarms. "No, this is ridiculous. What, I waltz in and announce my dominance? We don't operate the radio speakers; my buddy Kyle's exclusively safeguarded that since..." Daniel paused. Kyle was an old comrade, partial to neither Cannon. He was likely coerced out of necessity, not fanaticism. He'd implement anything Nines proposed.

"But I'd require leverage," Floyd countered himself. "I manufactured stimpaks. They wouldn't permit me near something as vital as..." Thomas was Amber's brother, Daniel's soon to be in-law. He alone comprehended the pipe network's dizzying schematics. If he sabotaged the system, discovery would last days; repair, years. He was overly protective of his sister, and would obey her every plea. Amber was similarly loyal to Danny, so by proxy Nines controlled the hydraulics.

"Desperate folk come out shooting, and we've garnered a mighty arsenal over the centuries," he considered. "A well positioned frontal ambush ought to mitigate that. I'd need twenty armed men at minimum, and the Meld can field six." He instinctively relaxed, perusing the ceiling in his calculations. "On second thought, it wouldn't take excessive effort to switch the locks on the armory closet, certainly not with an insider."

The Gomorrah was unusually serene. "Shit," Danny remarked. He never cussed. He glanced at Dominic, recalling the scenario in which he'd placed himself. Turns out he did possess a favor to ask of the crime lord. "Sir, I'm not excessively fond of indebtedness. I'd like to earn what favors you bestow. I'll allocate space in my schedule to ensure it. My price is a week's usage of a couple dozen experienced soldiers, and two hundred gallons of freshwater. You'd score a valuable ally in exchange, and your pick of the finer elements of our coffers, even after the square trade of labor." Vault 48 famously had no allocated storage area, but his compatriots had garments and weapons to spare.

He cocked his noggin as his superego resumed ownership. "Wait, why do I crave authority now? I didn't desire this prior. I've no grand machinations!" He focused his attention to a nit on a nearby wall. "But it's possible..."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

"We followed Henry Hinshaw, and he respected us. He upheld what traditions didn't disturb our ascension. The whole host of dwellers, from lowly Nines to lofty Aces, labored in harmony according to a singular vision. We entered a Golden Age, the scope of which surpassed that of our prewar ancestors! We obeyed his commands, for they led to prosperity.

"The Aces concurred with his dictates, always accepting with grace their underlings' sacrifice. His final testament relinquishes a fraction of their privileges. Suddenly, the madman has crossed the line! How swiftly they betray his legacy with their authority at stake. Those who cannot comprehend loss of power should never have been granted it. My beloved sister is neither first nor last in the extensive annals of family lost to the Vault. I'll bury her with the card she so covets, and mourn recognizing that the harsh nuclear wilderness cannot abide dotards. Even amidst this apocalypse, we are glory bound! Aces Down; Jacks are Wild!"

Faye Cannon

"In our storied history, we weren't given understanding of these slips of laminated paper. Our forefathers carved meaning from the void. Unchallenged, universal influence in an individual's hands was destined for failure. Randomly selected Aces would bear that burden together. Their undeserved nature would grant them humility, sparing them from addiction to their status. Their varied lineage and expertise would stifle the dynasties and cliques that hobbled empires of old. Whether brilliantly planned or accidentally fashioned, that system had held for two full centuries by the time Henry Hinshaw assumed control. Hinshaw understood this and honored it.

"And so we cherish our heritage and shun would-be tyrants. I adore my older sister and so pity her. She blindly embraced an ideology which seeks to corrupt her. I hope whatever unblemished remnant she harbors survives the coming onslaught. Otherwise, I'll remain steadfast in my duty, which far eclipses me and my woes. A dozen generations stand with our cause! The Cards Count!"

Eve Cannon

Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

Don Dominic openly welcomed Daniel. He called Floyd his friend. He dismissed a reputable underling to allocate room. Such hospitality from New Vegas's elite unnerved the expedition commander. He half expected Vaulter on the club menu. He accepted the boss's hand, instinctively matching its firmness. Marjorie's recognition of the Meld's efforts partially but insufficiently explained the generosity. It alleviated Danny's concerns enough to allow the response, "It was an honor; no thanks necessary." The gemstone on that baroness's ring finger could focus quite a potent laser.

Daniel swallowed as he took the warm seat. "Daniel... Yes, Daniel works, apologies. My best friends call me 'Nines,' if you'd prefer." His trance vanished. Strangers in strange worlds couldn't afford to be caught in stupor. Technically, he represented an organization on par with the Omertas. Regardless of appearance, this was amicable parley between equals. Then why did it feel so lopsided?

Endemic of the imbalance, Danny produced three handcrafted potholders and placed them on the table. "Prior to talking business, I've brought these humble offerings. I wanted to bestow a fancier gift. As your wife implied, caps are hard to come by nowadays. Congratulations, by the way. Rest assured that once capital flows again, you'll witness a wedding present worthy of ancient royalty. Meanwhile, please accept these labors of love, sewn and stuffed by my own fiance."

He smiled hesitantly. He sought private advice, yet made men surrounded him. Leisure seekers reveled within earshot. Daniel lacked the charisma to suggest that Omerta move elsewhere. He certainly wouldn't ask him if he trusted his spouse. Daniel wasn't overly fond of public torture and execution. Ergo, this scenario must suffice. He pulled a colorless photograph from his pocket. A brief glimpse reminded him of home, well, his birthplace. The Meld was his newfound land. "I request no favors, merely wisdom from the wise."

He displayed the picture before the crime lord's view, pointing out key individuals. "This is our Women's Choir. My precious Amber smiles in the middle there. Beside her is Charlotte; behind her is Isabel. I figured I'd introduce them, since they're all in town." He hoped that the few blurred pipes and cramped background wouldn't reveal the chorus's underground location in Vault 48.

He drew Omerta's attention to the left flank, where a couple conventionally attractive, nearly identical blondes with pigtails had arms around each other's shoulders towards the ensemble's rear. "These are sisters Faye and Eve Cannon." Eve had slightly lighter hair and darker skin; Daniel reckoned a personal touch would clarify matters. "Our faction head, my mentor, assigned the former to rule in his stead when he passed away earlier this month. The current interregnum disagrees with his choice. The latter appears to be their champion.

"They're equally competent by my account," Daniel stated. He paused to reflect. "Eve's more intelligent, but Faye's savvier with people. In earnest, I just realized that now. Frankly, we'd benefit greatly from either management, but we're presently locked in bitter civil engagement. Neither will tolerate joint leadership, despite my attempts to reconcile.

"Eve while younger represents disciplined tradition. She'd integrate us into the central network. Instant communication. Efficient transport. Faye embodies the hopeful expansion of eras past. She's discussed personally her grandiose construction project proposals to expand our headquarters. She might sink us in pursuit, but infrastructure is welcome."

He relaxed in his chair, his discharge of information therapeutic, albeit overwhelming. "Both demanded my support. I gave none. Without a chance to grieve, I can't make decisions of this scale. I've seen your handling of flood relief. You navigate murky situations like making lunch. What would you do in my shoes? I have additional material, if you need."

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

While calculating his plan of action, Sulser wondered why he was so frequently omitted from the overarching strategy, his pleas to engage so flippantly dismissed. The humbling firepower that spewed forth during his minute's musing and the visual reminder that his comrades literally towered above him quickly settled his questions.

Nonetheless, it rendered him redundant. Fuka provided ample distraction. Overkill and Alvin spearheaded the rear charge. Jaromir suppressed the vanguard. Karel's inaccuracy humored the crowd. Sir Commander coordinated from distance. And Hamazasp... was there too.

Then again, irrelevance had its benefits. His vehicle bore no pockmarks as of yet; neither his foes nor his friends expected much from his craft. By the time his calculations concluded, Zhu hailed over the comms.

"Near bogey affirmative; far Locust untouched," he replied casually. A shiny new target tempted the dairy farmer, but he understood the difference between three enemies and four. He reached for his medium laser button... which one was it? A stray thought reminded him of sparring practice with Nakano. Get in their personal space, and their fluster will prevent a reaction. Doubly so with his adversary reeling from previous batterings. Triply so as a practical ghost on the battlefield, appearing from a blind spot. It was certainly a better chance than an unskilled lout had at aiming his energy device.

"Engaging ramming maneuvers," he reported, his lack of coordination disabling his capacity for weaponry as he adjusted to face the LCT-1V. His thrusters at maximum, he bade his 'Mech push forward. He lowered his vehicle's head, the rush of combat forcing him to smile. The first shrapnel grazed his hull quite too late to stop him.

Impact. A right good hit, at that. Largely by accident, he'd found the perfect angle to sheer the Locust's left arm from its nub. As the Ayrshire reeled back, the Taurian switched gears from movement to armaments. He knew where the machine gun controls were, and he slammed bullets where his cockpit once imprinted. The mirror reflection of his potential demise discomforted but didn't unnerve him. He now possessed a close quarters weapons advantage to his doppelganger: two to nothing. With any luck, the enemy's response would be minimal. Of course, skirmishes rarely bless the humble soldier with such fortunes.

Rolls and Damage

Charge: Roll of 11: Damage = 2 x Distance traveled (2) = 4 Damage, Left Arm Chosen
Machine Guns (x2): (AUTOMATIC HIT): Damage = 2 (x2) = 4 Damage, Left Arm Chosen
LCT-1V: Left Arm: 4 Armor + 3 Internal Structure - 8 Total Damage: Destroyed

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Northwest Passage, "Meld" Outward Base: Morning, November 18th

Pastime at the Meld was an oddly tense affair. Amber slouched in her indoor rocking chair, threading a needle across tight fabric. Temporarily relieved of serving the homeless, Charlotte casually flipped through the lunch section of her recipe booklet, attempting to utilize her remaining supplies to the utmost. Isabel, neither cook nor craftswoman, hurriedly scribbled a spreadsheet onto a blank page, which would hopefully supplement the trigonometric reference material she'd forgotten on her journey over. The singular noise was an axe's thwacking outside.

Amber intermittently glanced at Isabel. For a fortnight, she'd wanted to reminisce about the Failfest revelries with a companion. Isabel would throw a fit if she discovered that they'd seceded in jest. Floyd (perhaps rightfully so) didn't assign Isabel any excursions, so she busied herself in the kitchen, eternally within earshot of the homestead's every corner. Apparently that was a habit of Vault 48's queens, as Charlotte's station was the table's opposite end.

"Charlotte," Isabel inquired. "One plus the squared tangent is the squared cosecant?"

"Secant," Charlotte responded. "You divide both sides of the Pythagorean theorem by the square of the cosine."

"That's what I did," Isabel countered, considerably calmer than her reputation allowed.

"No, cosine to the negative first is the secant."

Isabel rechecked her formula. "Funny, the way that works. Thanks!" She sounded eerily cheerful.

"No problem," Charlotte assured. "Happened to me plenty."

The men were similarly useless. Bradley forbade disturbance during his outdoors woodworking, despite the plethora he caused. Daniel didn't invite Amber on his frequent outings. He likely thought they didn't intrigue her enough to warrant accompaniment, though she longed for anytime alone together, no matter the boredom. The only individual who more often left the abode was Justin, commonly to drink, waste caps, and bring back surprisingly competent gossip and negotiation positions. And so Amber was abandoned to cherish the pleasantries herself, her cool frustration channeled into her artwork. Charlotte had taught her to cross stitch, and the student had quite handily surpassed the master.

Daniel entered the living space, his newsboy's cap displaying his intentions to leave. "Hey, sweetheart, how's it going?"

Amber smiled, her teeth on full display, her eyes concealing her musings. "Fine, honey! And you?"

"Just swell, knowing that you're happy," he announced, his earnest goodwill nonetheless an unintentional lie. He approached the wall of crafts and perused the contents with a keen eye. "Say, I'm headed to market, and I need something to trade. How much of my allowance do you want for these three potholders?" He pointed out his quarry to his fiance.

"A kiss," she stated bluntly.

Daniel was taken aback. Still, he helped Amber to her feet and lovingly complied. "You drive a hard bargain, Miss."

"Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad," she quipped. "Care for another?"

"You're making us sick," Charlotte interrupted. Bradley's thwacks continued at a steady volume. "Get a room, or stop it."

"Protocol permits displays of affection in dining, sleeping, and similar relaxation quarters, in manners that don't disrupt urgent or vital duties," Isabel denoted.

"Like you'd know, Isabel. You've never had a boyfriend," Charlotte commented.

"I read the manual. Haven't you?"

The romantic mood long since deceased, the Nine of Clubs squeezed the hand of the Nine of Hearts, collected his recently purchased goods, and departed forthwith with a smile.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Front Entrance - Noontime, November 18th

Having reached his destination, Danny doffed his cap and lowered it to his heart. He felt remorse over lying to his girlfriend, but he understood the consequences of clouded judgment. No, he'd make his decisions alone. Well, not completely.

He stood patiently at the doors. With gifted artwork no longer a concern, he better appreciated the architecture: the faux pointed arches, the tasteless titanesses above the main hall. What felt familiar were the patrons rushing past him to enter.

He flagged down someone who looked official. "Pardon me, I seek an audience with Fa-" he shook his head, "with Don Dominic Omerta. If you'd-" He didn't complete his sentence when his contact walked away. He realized that, unlike a castle, he required no permission to enter, only to approach the king. He donned his hat again and marched inside.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Reception Area - Noontime, November 18th

A stranger to this type of establishment, he was shocked by the gaudiness of the facility. A Vaulter like him comprehended practicality and simple pleasures, and this gold and red behemoth far outreached his scope. He stumbled around trying to gather his bearings before realizing the receptionist was just to his left.

Daniel sheepishly approached the desk. "Howdy! Um, apologies. What's your name?"

The lady had clearly remembered him from the prior debacle. "Clarice. You're that yokel leader, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am he. Greetings, Clarice. I hoped to have the audience of Don Omerta, if at all possible."

"For what purpose?"

Daniel swallowed, doffing his hat again. "Advice, for certain discreet matters of state." From his experience, the rich and powerful desired naught else than to be considered rich, powerful, and wise. He didn't intend to exploit that truism; honestly, he was desperate for stable counsel. Henry was no longer around to mentor him; Henry was in fact responsible for this kerfuffle. Daniel entrusted nobody from the Vault with the fate of the colony, and some schmuck would lead him astray. Watts was a refined but untested man of culture. Dominic knew the price of kingship. Floyd's coffers couldn't afford it, but he knew those who could.

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

PLA Navy Ship Zunyi – 10/11/2022, 19:54 UTC+8

“Damnation, where could the enemy be?” Field Officer Pan’s eyes were glued to his binoculars, the command deck warming from the fires of his quiet vitriol. He was too preoccupied to notice his crew’s timid glances on his periphery. No sane subordinate, not even the captain, would suggest that the commander alter course. Pan muttered his frustration to himself, “We should have passed them by now.”

A beep from the communications device blessedly broke the tension. The aide received the first line of dialogue. “Field Officer Gao again, sir.”

“On speaker,” Pan demanded. “I’m busy.”

He would regret this decision. His accompaniment could hear the grin through Gao’s smug vocals. “Pan, you dumb bastard.”

“I’ve no time for your antics, Gao,” Pan announced. “I’m hunting prey.”

A snicker. “I take it you don’t require assistance from my reconnaissance, then?”

Pan came to the defense of his own fragile ego. “We do swimmingly ourselves.”

“I scrambled my jets to investigate your paranoia. Turns out, we did identify a fleet of enemy vessels. Two, in fact.”

Pan’s curiosity betrayed him. “Where are they?”

The voice cracked into a semblance of laughter. “The vital one is behind you, a few miles offshore of Mischief Reef.”

“Impossible!” Pan declared. “We had an impenetrable line of patrol ships. They couldn’t have subverted our eagle eyes!”

“Yes, about that: we detected a hole in your line, one ship large. They sailed straight though.”

Pan dropped his binoculars in shock. “Captain, can you confirm this?”

The captain acquired alternate communications and demanded confirmation from the blockade chain. Gao resumed his harvest of schadenfreude. “I’m certain you’ll report truthfully, but you’ll forgive me if I contacted the Central Military Commission in advance, to provide my humble perspective on the matter. Your pigheadedness tonight will cost you, Pan.”

Pan gripped the nearest railing. If Gao possessed mere fabrications, his testimony alone could relieve Pan of his post, and possibly of his head. Of course, if the evidence was more substantial…

“Field Officer Pan!” the captain reported. “The Luzhou does not respond to our hails!”

Gao dropped all mirth for his conclusion. “I’ll enjoy watching you fry.”

Mischief Reef – 10/11/2022, 20:15, UTC +8

The assembled crew had inadvertently partitioned the sandy beaches. On one side stood the ASEAN delegation: a cadre of captains, officers, and curious Arms Masters (most notably Iker Orozco), Captain Rhiannon Kennedy first among equals despite not deriving from a ASEAN nation. Her cap was tucked fashionably underneath her armpit. She held her chin high, not merely out of formality but in order to see the towering bearded Arms Master standing across from her. He himself was predominantly flanked by a short young man with white hair and a glowing sword, and secondarily flanked by a number of soldiers in tactical gear and armaments.

Kennedy hailed them. “Greetings to the Qing Restoration Society. In recognition of your efforts against the People’s Liberation Army, the Association of Southeast Asian Nations bestows supplies and ammunition. May our mutual prosperity safeguard the seas.”

The bearded man snapped his fingers, and a soldier hesitantly approached him. The tall figure stared Kennedy down as his underling translated her words into Mandarin. He responded in kind, and the soldier replied: “We are glad that ASEAN sees value and reason. It will be great benefit to you in the future.”

Captain Rhiannon nodded her approval, moderately concerned that her counterpart expressed not gratitude but assumption. Their support saved them from certain death, and the help seemed almost implied. Such things annoyed but didn’t faze her. “I was told to expect Jin Li, the commander here. None of you match his description. Where is he?”

The grunt started to translate, but his superior dismissed him. “Jin Li defends the waters. I am Ren Zhao, head of the Qing Zodiac. I have authority to address all matters here. The emperor will see you as He sees fit.”

Cranes on the Supply and Stalwart lifted relief goods off their decks. The crates were cracked open and distributed among the eager ASEAN, Qing, and automaton terracotta soldiers below. An ant line trailed into the concrete bunkers on the island to store the newfound bounty.

Iker was leftmost on his delegation’s side. Either willfully or unintentionally, he ignored Kennedy’s silent glare as he spoke out of turn. “Zodiac? I presume you must have special abilities, then.”

Ren Zhao beamed at the opportunity, unfurling his radiant banner. “I have the power to deflect incoming projectiles.”

“Sounds very useful to our current circumstances,” Iker commented. “Why aren’t you assisting Jin Li with the defense, then?”

Ren Zhao’s smile vanished as Kennedy tried to conceal a smirk. “And why aren’t you helping unload?” he retorted.

Iker unveiled his luminous axe. “I move single objects of similar material. It’s not quite practical to hack into grain and rations packaging.”

The white haired lad beside Zhao piped up quietly, motioning to the crane yonder. “I’m certain you could move the supply crates closer to the bunkers, then.”

Iker pondered the proposition. “That works.” He promptly departed the gathering.

Rhiannon resumed, “Regardless, I believe our obligations are met. Is there anything else you request from us?”

“No,” Ren Zhao stated. “You have done your duty. You have our permission to leave.”

The Australian saluted, and the Chinese bowed. With an about face, Captain Kennedy departed to manage the disembarkation. A seaman passed her by to draw the Chinese delegation’s attention. “We’re wrapping up; I don’t believe we need as many soldiers anymore.”

The lad nodded. “Of course.” The glowing sword and terracotta army vanished into earthen dust, carried towards the sea on the wind.

PLA Navy Ship Zunyi – 10/11/2022, 20:22 UTC+8

The crew still reeled from such a sharp 180 degree turn, as surely the rest of the battle group likely felt. Their fellow sailors had the right to complain, but they themselves bore no such privilege. They resigned to sit at their stations while listening to Pan rant about how “I’m going to get them this time! Catch them by surprise when they least expect it! A brilliant strategy indeed!”

A curt signal on the comms cut short his musings. Pan picked it up personally. “Glory to China!”

“Pan Gang. You are not authorized for this exercise. Stand down.”

“Who is this who thinks he can order around a Field Officer?”

The voice was not amused. “General Huang Chao, Joint Staff Department of the Central Military Commission.”

Pan sobered up rather quickly. “J-Joint Staff?”

“Stand down, Field Officer Pan.”

Pan swallowed, visibly calculating which actions wouldn’t lead to swift execution. “But, General Huang, we can still counter their actions!”

Authority wasn’t working; rationale must suffice. “Not while they’re within range of Arms Master traitor Jin Li. Your failure will not be compounded by the additional loss of our vessels.”

“Then we shall wait until they leave that zone!” the would be tactician proposed. “They have to depart sometime!”

“And outrage the international community with an action clearly made out of spite? NATO is still not directly involved.”

“But-”

“Pan!” Huang exclaimed, resuming his authoritative status. “It’s over! You have lost! If you pursue your current course, we will have no choice but to declare you an enemy of the state. You will stand down, like all the other fleets in the area. Is that clear?”

The bridge was deathly quiet as Pan came to terms. “Very clear, General Huang Chao.”

“Good,” Chao audibly sighed. “You will embark on the nearest craft to Zhanjiang for questioning. We will manage your replacement.”

The only question in "questioning" would be whether a bullet or injection was cheaper. Blood drained from Pan’s face. “Understood. Gòngchǎndǎng wànsuì!”

“Gòngchǎndǎng wànsuì.” Click.

Summoning his last strength, Pan stumbled across to the ship’s captain. He bowed lowly. “It was an honor to serve alongside you.”

The captain returned the bow and lied through his teeth. “Likewise.”

Downtown Angeles City – 10/14/2022, 20:26 UTC+8

Rear Admiral Adrián Abasolo wore not his customary white military fatigues but slacks and a button down long sleeve shirt covered by a jet black blazer. Nonetheless, he’d fashioned a small pin of the Philippine flag above his breast out of patriotic duty. His aide sat beside him, her form fitting sleeveless cocktail dress similarly defying typical dress code. Adrián’s eyes blurred as he peered out his window and the lights of the city faded into stars. “Jasmine, when did you last visit your family?”

Jasmine shuffled in her seat. “Probably a few months? Before the war, certainly.”

“Alright, once we’ve settled our guests, take this sedan and spend quality moments with them. I want to hear some more household stories like the one you told me yesterday.”

“Sir, I couldn’t.”

“Nonsense! Ryan would love to escort you. Isn’t that right, Ryan?”

The chauffeur in the front seat didn’t have the luxury of choosing his own attire; he bore the suit of a lieutenant. Perhaps he preferred that, given his lighthearted demeanor. “A pretty woman like her? Sure thing, boss!”

“No, it’s not that,” Jasmine lamented. “We believe my brother died in Lingayen, sir. He was reported missing, and he hasn’t reappeared since. I doubt we’ll have such merriment at home, not for a while.”

“Ah,” Abasolo uttered. He used the sobriety to prepare himself for the coming interaction. “You have my condolences. You’re entitled to bereavement leave whenever you require it.”

“Thanks, Admiral.” Jasmine smiled. “I’ll take it when the war’s over.”

Attagirl; what a treasure. The car braked as it reached its destination. The admiral looked behind him to see a string of parked buses. Two, three, four… they’d all made it. Excellent; traffic was no concern. “Well, let’s go pamper some magic people, shall we?” He opened his door, circumnavigated the vehicle, and opened Jasmine’s.

“Let’s,” Jasmine agreed.

Ritz Hotel Angeles, Angeles City – 10/14/2022, 20:30 UTC+8

The milky white inner room was yellowed by evening light. Arms Masters were directed to and seated in rows of chairs of high luxury and middling comfort. When the audience was situated, Admiral Abasolo appeared at their front. His smile felt unnatural, so he dropped it as soon as he introduced it.

“Greetings, everyone. While some of us have talked personally since, I’d like to congratulate you all collectively on a successful exercise to Mischief Reef." He didn't appreciate applause and so allotted no time for it. "We haven’t heard the QRS express their gratitude due to jamming operations, but the concerns we’ve received from intercepted PLA transcripts proves that our work was fruitful.

“Now,” he relaxed his stance slightly, “We already have another mission for you. However, unlike previous, that mission is not time sensitive. I’ve postponed it for a later date. Even now, I’m certain you’re exhausted from your endeavors in the South China Sea, and I won’t throw that kind of soldier onto the battlefield if I can help it.

“To that end, the Philippine government has authorized the renting of this establishment. The management has experienced a drop in revenue and so agreed. Apparently the well to do don’t typically spend their vacation in a war zone during wartime.” If that was a joke, his face expressed no humor.

“I’d like to make this perfectly clear: this is not a charity. This is mandatory recuperation in preparation for your next assignment. Keep physically fit, but don’t overexert yourself. We will offer daily trips to New Clark City’s stadium complex as needed.” New Clark City was a money pit, the brainchild of some city planner with time in excess who thought he’d usher in a utopia free of economics or rational thought. While it was there, though, Abasolo found no reason not to utilize its functions.

“A few drinks are fine, but you will be detained and reprimanded if you appear at roll call shitfaced. You are expected to be on your best behavior, especially to the staff here. They anticipated a leisurely pseudo vacation but now have to tolerate you. Treat them accordingly, with humility.”

He scanned the room. “If there are any questions, you may address them to me privately, not out of confidentiality but out of efficiency. The concierge at the front has your room keys and is on standby to distribute them. Dismissed.”

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

October 21st: To recuperate caps spent in purchasing the painting, the Meld commences its first attempts at revenue. Amber volunteers to make crafts, while Charlotte converts the colony's excess rations into restaurant quality dishes. The Meld opens for public dining but fails to gather initial traction. Meals run for six caps; fabric goods for fifteen.

October 26th: The Happy Trails Caravan makes contact with Vault 48. Concerned about wanton expenditures, Henry, Ace of Clubs assigns siblings Queen Isabel and King Justin Moore of Clubs to assist colonial finances and foreign affairs, respectively. Despite his aloofness, Justin is renowned for deft negotiations around Sac Town. They arrive on the 29th.

October 28th: The "Failfest," a local festival that commemorates the day upon which multiple systems across the vault malfunctioned simultaneously. In celebration, all non-vital elements shutdown, leading to a temporary cessation of outside communications. Cutoff from instant messaging regardless, Daniel Floyd takes the opportunity to jokingly, temporarily, declare independence. Fine beverages are purchased for the occasion.

November 2nd: Henry Hinshaw falls ill. Layman doctors concur that the symptoms are caused by terminal cancer. He appoints a successor: the promising Jack of Diamonds Faye Cannon. Tradition dictates that the remaining Aces select a new leader from amongst themselves after the death of a predecessor. Hinshaw's revolutionary decision causes great turmoil. Eve Cannon, Ace of Diamonds and Faye's equally capable younger sister, is the most vocal opponent.

November 5th: Eager to assist the flood relief efforts but too distant for effect, the colony agrees to donate all excess foodstuffs to the Omertas' and White Gloves' food programs. Isabel protests, and her outcry is duly logged and overruled by Floyd. The Queen of Spades helps serve the impoverished and homeless. Choked of supply, the diner closes and has not since resumed operations.

November 6th: Hinshaw passes, leaving behind a fledgling empire of his own creation. He is celebrated as a hero by the entire clan, despite his final testament, maybe genuinely but perhaps in a bid to garner popularity. Portraits and similar artwork adorn his grave and appear throughout the facility. He is sealed in stone under a defunct room on the premises.

November 9th: To compensate for revenue loss, Bradley proposes to take up woodworking, and Charlotte recommends pottery. Both initiatives are fully endorsed. Driftwood is gathered from the ruins of destroyed housing to supply Bradley's endeavor. The first furnishings are crude but practical and commercially viable. The Expedition prospects for clay pits, though the Green limits their options.

November 12th: Eve sends an emissary and Faye arrives personally to beseech Floyd's support. In the heated discussion Daniel leverages the tension by detailing visions for a machine parts factory under the control of the Expedition. Neither party makes promises. He expresses neutrality but affirms his broader loyalty, sending them both away with homemade wood and fabric crafts but otherwise empty handed.

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

The outline discomforted Hamazasp. A stationary Locust was scrap metal in waiting, especially when it possessed no far reaching equipment. His mount was equipped with sparingly little armor plating and only absorbed so much while motionless. Of the pilots present, his death was most probable. The crew's betting odds likely reflected that, though he wouldn't bother to check. Gambling was for those with assets to lose. Regardless, he had twenty minutes to make peace with the circumstances. He bore the same countenance as he climbed aboard, bade farewell to his spry mechanic, strapped in, and descended.

With landfall approaching, he identified two square buttons, respectively red and blue, each embedded in a sea of verdant light. Figuring those to launch the ignition, he pressed the former. He couldn't hear the engines turning over and so repressed it. His newfound layer of sweat proved the cockpit considerably warmer than his initial inspection. He punched the other button, and the water that accumulated on his person began to chill. Ah; those controlled the temperature. God bless the factory models. Already a mess, he murmured a brief prayer of gratitude that new units maintained functional air conditioning. He held onto the latter until the inner atmosphere was near freezing. He relished the cold; it kept him aware and awake. He'd squeeze every last joule before stray flak or errant debris would render the system inoperable. Doubtless the technicians would have larger priorities.

He found the actual startup and flipped it on. The familiar whir satisfied him. He inhaled and exhaled, perusing the book titles situated in the corner. They seemed properly fastened to withstand the upcoming shudders. A flurry of paper would be quite distracting. He retrieved his harmonica and played a string of notes. The reeds soothed him, calming himself on battle's eve. Thankfully, his microphone was muted; the preemptive melodies were his alone to enjoy.

The Centurion's rear soon filled his view, as per instructions. Stowing his instrument, the Taurian glanced around for maximum speed settings, hoping to cruise at a steady pace after his superior. Upon reflection, he gave up the search. Sloth was not a trait he desired, and he didn't want to rediscover and adjust that control during combat. These musings culminated into the Ayrshire thumping up to the commander's backside, pausing for a couple seconds for his leader to stomp ahead, and repeating. The first salvos flew once he'd completed a few cycles.

The seemingly contradictory orders of "follow from a distance" and now "spread out" meant that Hamazasp's cover vanished almost instantly. It was perhaps a perfect excuse to break formation and charge the adversary point blank. Nonetheless, he understood the importance of team cohesion. He tried to imitate his boss's jagged maneuvers, a difficult task with different velocities and skill levels. His joystick's trigger was never pulled, as his targets in either direction or range were all friendly. He'd be Ulrik's obedient lapdog as duty necessitated.

He was still miffed, of course, that his Firestarter compatriot blatantly discarded that post and rushed the enemy. Sulser detected a trace of jealousy but mostly repugnance within his own disapproval. He ultimately concluded that the flamer wasn't reliable. Conversely, as predicted, Jaromir's supportive fire confirmed trustworthiness. Would that he himself could mimic the assistance.

His unblemished hull was probably a testament to its current lack of threat. The retired farmer, growing bored on the battlefield, activated his communications. "Sir Commander, my vehicle is ineffective from behind you. Permission to engage independently in close quarters?" It had the energy of a rookie eagerly exclaiming "Put me in, Coach!", but the loquaciousness mitigated the effect somewhat.

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

Collaboration between Kaitlyn, Iker, Myron and Hannie

Part 2/2

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:38 UTC+8

It felt... final, decisive, the make or break moment. In a couple minutes, they'll either have secured 60+ POW's or lost two men and given their position away.

Since Hannie was present, Kaitlyn indulged her inner mother and motioned her over, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. It was unprofessional, but she wouldn't see Captain Kennedy or her crew after today.

"Operation is active," Kennedy instructed her subordinates. "Inform the Yap to prime naval guns and torpedoes. Launch the lifeboat."

The bridge emanated quiet energy as ensigns paid keen attention to respective stations. The commander exhaled to relax herself, then inhaled to puff herself up. The only noise was the clacking of various keyboards and a seaman calmly relaying orders over the comms, headphones keeping allied ships' conversations from distracting the crew.

Blockade Runners, Lifeboat of the BRP Conrado Yap - 10/11/2022, 19:39 UTC+8

Iker looked out the window at the handful of sailors who lowered him. His salute was a mere thumbs up, a casual acknowledgment of calm assurance for both himself and the whole operation. He activated the communication systems in anticipation of receiving another aboard. He glanced around the controls; he'd operated more complicated machinery prior. The engines ignited, and Iker briefly prayed for the endeavor.

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:39 UTC+8

"Lifeboats away. Torpedo systems and auto cannons loaded and awaiting your command," the seaman commented, relaying the Yap's updates.

"I'm ready to... teleport, now," Murray informed Kaitlyn. "Take care of Hannie for me."

Kaitlyn smiled. "Of course. Fair warning, teleporting can be disorienting. I almost threw up the first time."

Myron extended his shield to Murray. "Touch this; conversion to data takes a second or less."

Gordon bestowed his bullhorn upon Murray. "In case your voice doesn't carry," he chuckled.

Murray grasped the bullhorn with one hand, then, once Gordon released, touched Myron's shield with the other. In mere moments, he vanished.

Blockade Runners, Lifeboat of the BRP Conrado Yap - 10/11/2022, 19:40 UTC+8

Slightly disoriented when he materialized inside the orange boat, Murray first sensed the motor's vibration and the waves' whispers upon the enclosure. Iker uncomfortably reclined behind him, surprising him as he spoke. "So that's how it appears. Curious."

Murray turned around and, lacking suitable alternative greetings, saluted his compatriot in this endeavor. "Seaman Michael Murray, at your service."

Iker nodded briefly. "Iker Orozco, at yours."

"Yes, well, I stand ready."

The lifeboat surpassed the corvette from which it embarked, and reached range of the Chinese patrol in a matter of seconds as opposed to minutes. Amidst the loud ambient noise, a faint shout arose a kilometer away: "Zuǒbiān de wèizhī chuán!"

Iker halted the engines. "Cause for alarm?"

"They've spotted us but cannot identify us," Murray commented.

Iker peeked through the lifeboat's window. He was immediately greeted by the piercing glare of a spotlight. "Zhèngmíng nǐ de shēnfèn!" traversed the waters over the enemy vessel's speakers, apparently at the wayward vessel.

Iker blinked and dismounted. "Well, we're at reasonable length, anyways. Please take control." Iker vacated the navigator's station as Murray stumbled into the pilot's seat. "Don't be alarmed; I'll attempt to summon a luminous battleaxe."

"Of course," Murray exhaled, "Why wouldn't you?" He saw stranger abnormalities this evening.

The lifeboat flooded with light, and Campeón Champiñón rested trustfully in Iker's possession. After a momentary pause, Iker swung it horizontally towards the ship's hull. The clang with which the axe pierced mimicked a bullet shot, and Murray jolted in his chair.

"Àn zhù nǐ de huǒ!" blasted the speakers. Eerie calmness encompassed both ships. The Yap, a third party, approached from behind and beside.

Iker sat in the cabin and placed his fingers on his temples, furrowing his brow and trying to concentrate above the waves, as if finding the perfect chess move in a losing match. Thump came a distant sound. "That's not sufficiently large... Ah," Iker mused, "They must have two. Michael, please, does the ship's rear host a lifeboat?"

Murray peered through the spotlight. "Affirmative, I believe."

"Eureka." Thump again. "Very well; that's a couple away vessels rendered inoperative," Iker stated. "Pardon me in advance; I'm known to produce ghastly noises with heavier undertakings." Breathing heavily, Iker gripped his kneecaps and gritted his teeth. Murray felt unease, as if encountering a deranged drug addict along narrow corridors. He focused towards his own preparations, inspecting and activating his bullhorn. The unmistakable shriek of unwilling metal surfaced, muted by a thin film of water.

Iker relaxed. "I've created a gash beneath the surface, roughly twenty meters long," he announced. "I suspect our adversary's patrol has one hour left afloat."

Murray rolled his shoulders. "Well, fortis Fortuna adiavat." He exited then mounted the vehicle, speaking at the highest volume his limited voice and technology allowed. "Chuán zhèngzài xià chén, shàng chuán zǒu ba!" His Australian accent deformed his admittedly competent Chinese. "Wǒmen shì nǐ wéiyī de- Whoa!"

A bullet grazed the lifeboat's upper hull. Murray didn't need to dodge but nonetheless momentarily lost his balance. He regained it and attempted to conclude and repeat. "...de jiùyuán! Chuán zhèngzài-"

Another cartridge was emptied, penetrating the ocean before the vessel. Iker manned his radio. "We are being fired upon, but inaccurately from such a distance. What are your orders?"

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:42 UTC+8

Dread gripped Kaitlyn as she appraised the situation. She hadn't accounted for the possibility of such hostility. The closer they got, the more likely they were to get shot. The PLA navy wasn't very receptive to its 'rescue.' Should Murray and Iker maintain course, and hope the Chinese cease fire when they realize what's happening? Would they rather go down with the ship than receive mercy? Would they retaliate harder if ASEAN retaliates?

She breathed out, feeling her heart beat faster. She entertained a fleeting thought. That's not an option yet. "By now, they're probably suspicious. They'll be raising an alarm soon, won't they?" She addressed nobody in particular, not that she expected an answer.

The Philippine escort would appear any moment now. While the Supply could whip up some noise, it'd be better to take preventative actions other than that. Not quite an attack... Per se... More like suppression. "Myron, can you drop the gas yet?"

"Assuming their comms can receive a hail, yes," was Myron's answer. "If they have Internet, I can also force sleeping agent through their firewalls."

She blinked, and turned to face the captain properly. This fiasco had occurred because Kaitlyn hadn't understood how the enemy vessel would react. The crew or the captain. "Captain... What would it take for a ship to lay down arms?" Evidently dooming the ship wasn't enough. Kaitlyn wasn't entirely certain that dropping bombs would improve the situation more. She needed the perspective of a commander.

Huddled up to Kaitlyn, staring fearfully out into the ocean, the forgettable 14-year-old piped up. "People keep saying we shouldn't let them take us. I think a lot of people would rather..." She hesitated, unsure what sort of language was appropriate for the company of navy sailors. "Sink?"

Rhiannon Kennedy adopted a casual stance that reflected Kaitlyn's nervousness and awkwardness. Thoughts of surrender weren't typically encouraged among military leadership, but present duty ironically demanded it. She exhaled. "I'd continue to engage the enemy so long as I believed my endeavors made a difference. If there was some tactical advantage in my efforts or my death, then a noble sacrifice it would be." She didn't dare talk of surrendering her arms even theoretically, but her words implied the contrapositive: Pointless resistance would shatter morale. "Of course, slumber would remove me from the fray proper quick," she chuckled.

Blockade Runners, Lifeboat of the BRP Conrado Yap - 10/11/2022, 19:43 UTC+8

Iker kept the radio on for transparency's sake. Murray's brave but increasingly frantic warnings sounded in the ambience. "Chuán zhèngzài xià chén, shàng- Ah, bugger!" The bullhorn amplified his yaup and was consequentially turned off. The roof above Iker heard Murray's knee hit its frame. "They got me!" Murray exclaimed. "I'm injured, but nothing vital. Punctured my left thigh."

The Arms Master clutched his chin in contemplation and thought aloud. "I can't change physical properties. I can barely alter momentum. I might not react in time..." He signaled to the Supply. "Awaiting orders, but I concentrate also on other matters. If you hear me writhing in agony; that's normal." The comms then relayed strained screaming from Orozco.

Another bullet struck the Australian seaman, but he announced it openly. "My chest... They appear to shoot... bottlecaps? Coins? Little domed, flat objects; never seen them before! They couldn't penetrate my upper torso. Hurt like hell, though."

That wasn't the Chinese doing. As hypothesized, the larger cross section evenly distributed the impact. Not a moment too soon, either. "Keep talking," Orozco groaned.

"Right," Murray concurred, striking up the loudspeaker. "Shàng chuán zǒu ba!"

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:44 UTC+8

"For what they did to Murray?" Kennedy commented, "Say the word; we'll blast them."

Keep calm and carry on. It wasn't the most motivating line to quote, but it was something. The situation got worse, and Kaitlyn still sat on her ass twiddling her thumbs. Because you're useless. You're worse than useless, actually. Your actions just got a man shot!

No, that's not my fault–

First rule of leadership, Kaitlyn, everything is your fault.

She felt cold, and a little light headed. "Myron, drop the sleeping gas." Despite her temples' low drumming, her voice rang clear. "Captain, we'll probably be discovered very soon, so I won't stop you from firing on them. However, could we target their weapons specifically? Take out their means of a counteroffensive. Clarify their two options."

She gripped Hannie's shoulder harder before realizing what she was doing and relaxing slightly. "God help me," she murmured under her breath. Kaitlyn hadn't killed men before. She remembered that beach, a second sun blazing in the sky. Screams. A barrier breaking.

Myron momentarily slowed down, almost losing a valuable second from sudden surges of pessimism and weariness. He was tired of a fight for redemption that would never come. He grit his teeth and 'uploaded' the data-converted sleeping agent onto every open PLA communications device. Aerosol tranquilizers flooded the opposing vessel. The nonfatal weapon if inhaled would cause drowsiness then unconsciousness among their foes, saving Iker and Murray from inevitable death.

Myron assured Kaitlyn, "It's easy to resign yourself to dying and killing after seeing how hard it is to save lives. But to be honest, don't stop doing so... It took me a long time to see that lives are precious."

Blockade Runners, Lifeboat of the BRP Conrado Yap - 10/11/2022, 19:45 UTC+8

The horizon's stars sparkled through the gas, first atop the radar array, then around the bridge, then across the vessel's abdomen. The spared sections were the bow's tips and the helicopter pad that covered the ship's tail. If seamen operated on those sections, they didn't engage. The Yap entered firing range of even its small arms, but the guns remained silent.

Iker commented, "Visual on sleeping agent. Moving to board the vessel." He accelerated to full speed, fastened the steering wheel, and peeked onto the roof. Murray acknowledged Iker with a brief nod, lying down and applying pressure to his wound. Iker saw a pool of dark liquid on the bright orange surface and descended. Were there personal air filtration systems aboard? Thank God yes, and two. More presently, Iker found alcohol and bandages, and ascended to apply both to Murray's thigh. Murray's grit his teeth but kept silent. Afterwards, Orozco knelt and extended his hand. "Can you walk?"

Murray grimaced. "Fuck you, 'Can I-'"

"I ask you if you want to be a hero." Iker's face was cold and stern in the starlight as he presented a mask. Boarding a sinking ship to carry limp bodies to safety was a harrowing situation already, twice so with a faulty leg.

Murray received the message. "I, I can walk."

"Excellent," Orozco quipped, his voice lacking consolation, his empathy merely assumed. He descended again and directed the wayward vessel to the ship's aft.

Blockade Runners, HMAS Supply - 10/11/2022, 19:46 UTC+8

An overwhelmingly successful operation warranted applause, but tension aboard the Supply was only briefly alleviated. The most afforded was a sigh of relief across the command deck. Of course, the operation wasn't fully successful, was it? By Kaitlyn's standards, all lives must be saved. By Kennedy's, the blockade runner must reach Mischief Reef and return. The night was longer yet. "Minutes to interception, Lockwood?"

"Three, I believe," Electronics responded. Every moment was precious.

There, they made it. You can shut up now.

Yes, now the two of them must haul an entire ship's worth of doomed men onto a boat in three minutes. Congratulations, Private Price!

Kaitlyn frowned, imagining mockingly slow applause.

Could she improve the situation? The gas didn't appear to flood the whole ship. Some crew must still be awake, and they'll want to rescue their comrades, so it wouldn't just be Iker and Murray. She'd like to speed up the process, though.

She opened her mouth to state intentions but froze. What, she's going to go down there and help the evacuation? Wasn't she Team B's 'leader'? The leader isn't supposed to put themselves in harm's way.

But was Kaitlyn really a leader, so valuable as to be indispensable? I'm just a private, about as nobody as you get.

"I'm going too." She finally released Hannie, turning her attention to Myron. "I'll need a gas mask." She suspected Kennedy would have one and would speak up if Myron failed to produce one. She's doing this. She's contributing. She may not be the strongest soldier, but she was a soldier. She could help evacuate a few men.

Myron, seeing opportunity to help, retrieved a gas mask. "I've learned to prepare for everything. Remember: I've fought since I was your ward's age." Her ward; that was what Hannie was to her, wasn't she?

"Depart with my blessing," Kennedy saluted Kaitlyn. "Let's lower our expeditionary boats to assist. We ourselves will not deviate from our present course."

Blockade Runners, PLA Navy Ship Luzhou - 10/11/2022, 19:48 UTC+8

The orange lifeboat docked underneath the opposing patrol's side. Murray gulped. "So, how do we ascend?"

Iker shrugged. "I figure there's rope somewhere, attached to a weight. We'll grapple using that."

A rooftop thunk stilled the musing. Iker adjusted his facial covering and inspected the incident. A rope ladder ascended to the patrol's fenced rim. A sailor gazed downwards and hailed them, a gas mask similarly encompassing his head. He was fortunate to have reacted to the sleeping agent in time, as the ASEAN delegates were that his magnanimity overshadowed his desire for vengeance. "Bāng wǒ xiè xià zhèxiē shītǐ!" came his muffled plea.

"Xièxiè; lǐjiě zhěngjiùle nǐ de chuányuán," Murray accepted, bowing in sympathy.

Iker climbed aboard without hesitation, Murray limping behind. On deck, he found himself surrounded by unconscious seamen and a handful of masked former adversaries, all recently hauled from their posts. Iker slung his first catch and promptly lowered. Many hands caused light work, so the adage went. Bodies piled up at the contact location, and descended as expediently as possible.

The HMAS Supply appeared on the horizon, flanked by two small craft. The Yap soon decelerated beside the enemy patrol, and a second connection was made for direct transfer. Within minutes, the sides of the massive blockade runner barely avoided hitting the PLA bow as it cruised past at full speed, and what felt like a toy fleet encompassed the sinking vessel.

"Wǒmen bǎ tāmen dōu zhuā dàole ma?" Murray inquired of his Chinese counterpart.

"Wǒ rènshí de měi gèrén."

Murray sighed and clutched his aching knee. "We got everyone," he announced to Iker.

Iker manned his radio. "This is Orozco. Operation successful, amusingly. Boarding escape ships and departing."

@SkyHresvelg@Aisede@Lewascan2@Sniblet@Conscripts@Gerlando@Creative Chaos@Nimbus@KaiserElectric@Landaus Five-One@Letter Bee

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.