QJT

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

It doesn't appear that Hamazasp Sulser would be able to fit in this lore, would he?

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah, Don Omerta's Office - Early Afternoon, November 20th

Eve suspected that Don Omerta had laid the flattery on too thick. Now he'd removed any doubt. She adjusted her albeit minimal seating to signal decreasing interest. Perhaps the facade was only discernible when diagnosed at a direct angle; a passing glance at Faye detected a pinch of jealousy. The Ace chortled quietly. Jacks always hungered for, yet could never handle, grandiose accolades. Her sister embarrassed the delegation in pursuit: "I- In fact, many of our computers utilize the Unified Operating System, designed by Robert House!"

Danny deflated. Honest work. A solid month's labor should have been beyond sufficient to earn the don's loyalty, his troops, the tankers. Why not? The Meld was constructed in that time frame. Quality jobs for decent payment. He preferred uncomplicated transactions like those. Caps, gold bullion, whatever flimsy paper the New California Republic circulated as currency. Weeding gardens, constructing roads, clearing gaming tables, sanitizing toilets! Wasn't this typical activity outside the Vault? To pour heart and soul into meaningful efforts. To return to humble abode, knowing that no action brought harm onto another. To relax upon a recliner, satisfied in one's accomplishments.

Nines was relegated to dealing in favors, drawn beneath Omerta's wing rather than cooperating in symbiosis. VaultTec material he'd supply willingly; the blessings of survivorship were meant to share with those less fortunate. Next, he's to become the hitman himself. This Faustian bargain dragged him far from his comfort zone. He envisioned a medieval saga where the naive prince consulted the banished wizard. I can fulfill your desires, and all I require is...

His "better," more "rational" "judgment" "assuaged" him. Is it a hitman's role to convince a tyrant to relinquish his throne? No murder was invoked but peaceable resolution, to its furthest extent possible. Dominic - if it was permissible to address him by first name - seemed perfectly earnest in his intentions. The ancient billionaire was powerless, or maybe too self preoccupied, to aid the local denizens after the Flood. Vegas would indeed prosper under a fresher face. "Well-"

"Daniel," the younger Cannon bolstered from the couch.

"Yes, right," Floyd smiled. "We hoped for menial, non flashy tasks. Stuff you'd assign to folks for community service credit!" The sheer presence of the big man (in every sense) overwhelmed his bargaining power. "But, if you insist this task must be accomplished, sir, we've a couple questions. How might we manage the Securitron police force, and will we venture alone in this endeavor? They're strong ladies, stronger than yours truly, but, heh, not enough to break or blunt steel. A yokel from the Vaults stands no chance to persuade a genius level intellect, even peaceably, without some assurance of parity." And he surely wished for a peaceful conclusion, in respect and nervousness.

The Meld - Late Afternoon, November 20th

"You're certain I can't assist?"

The arachnid lair had compacted into a quaint bundle of tufts attached to Amber except a handful of excess polygons strewn across the floor and a singular torn square atop the table. Isabel was quarantined to the chair in the kitchen's corner, forced to be content with a dime novel. Amber held her elbows aloft, glancing behind her shoulder to Charlotte. At the bride's waist, Charlotte methodically tugged a litany of strings: lace wrapped over mere twine. The masterpiece was nigh complete.

"Look forward. Hold still. You're messing up my measurements," Charlotte commanded. "And no." A brief knot's jostle, and the seamstress revolved to admire her handiwork, arms akimbo. "The applique on your bodice is off kilter."

The bride to be swayed counterclockwise, the pendulum of fabric swishing upwards. "It's fit for marriage," she assured.

"I won't compromise. Not for this," Charlotte insisted. "You've sacrificed too dearly for our benefit. You've earned this."

"Hey, the asymmetry works," the Nine of Hearts posited. She summoned Isabel's attention. "I'm dressed fashionably, aren't I?"

The giantess lowered her book. The combined strength of her muscles couldn't lift the corners of her lips above a horizontal meridian. It was technically nonetheless a smile, and genuine at that. "Very."

Unsurprisingly, the Queen of Spades was unsatisfied with such a boor's approval. The brute lacked the delicacy to cut cloth, for crying out loud. She opened the door and hollered at her beau: "Bradley! I need your opinion!"

The woodsman barged through the entrance, an assortment of foliage in his clutches. "The Green's encroaching fast on the homestead. We ought to establish tougher barriers." Assuming the target of his focus, he looked the gown up and down. "So, yours was nicer, but-"

"Oh, you're no help," Charlotte lamented.

"Is it criminal to regard my wife as lovelier in her-"

"Not the girl, you lummox, the dress!"

"Let him conclude his statement, Charlotte."

"Prior to interruption, I was about to compliment its simple elegance. Matches Amber's personality to a 't.' Reflects highly on your craftmanship, too." Bradley unwittingly spared himself an evening of outdoors slumber but wasn't quite out of the woods yet. "So, you're gonna snap the portrait, or...?"

"What do you mean?" Amber asked.

Charlotte stamped the floorboards. "That was a surprise for the wedding!" she exclaimed. The reveal subverted, Charlotte resigned herself. "I purchased an antique camera and film for the event. Figured it'd be a nice touch."

Amber beamed, nearly melting in her attire. "Oh, Charlotte! What a gallant present!" Charlotte's gloom persisted; Amber resolved to cheer her up. "Since the cat's out of bag, why don't we test the machinery? Ensure there aren't components missing, you know?"

"A capital notion!" Bradley announced, equally determined to save his wife's demeanor (and himself from her wrath). "It's located among the spice boxes, correct?"

He retrieved the black device and fastened it to a tripod. Amber puffed her chest outward, threw her shoulders back, inhaled deeply, raised her chin, and slackened her jaw: as regal, as ephemeral as the photographs of centuries past. Rigid, statuesque, perfect.

"Oddly decked for a funeral, I say," Bradley quipped.

At once, she exhaled a smiling guffaw, her form loosened, she staggered forth, her clothes swirled round her, and Bradley at that moment captured the image. She almost ripped the linen. "Wait, I wasn't ready for that! Can we take a second one?"

"No dice," Charlotte chuckled. "Too few pictures in the cartridge."

"But Danny's going to see this forever!" she protested. "It's embarrassing. My posture was thrown off; I was a mess!"

Charlotte shook her head. "Darling, you're fit for marriage."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah, Don Omerta's Office - Early Afternoon, November 18th

Floyd wracked his noggin to give the Don the benefit of the doubt. Not three days ago he'd shown him a photograph with these two present lasses towering behind the women's chorus. He'd pointed them out explicitly, even summarizing their strengths and creeds. And yet Dominic asked for their names. Why would he forget so quickly after their introduction? They were the most critical figures to the whole endeavor!

Granted, Omerta's a busy man; a great swath of Vegas politics must have caught his attention. He recalled the photo in his mind's eye. Eve's blonde locks had whitened and frayed slightly under the burden of leadership. Faye filled out her garments further, and her eyes were wearier than in her youth. Neither had washed in awhile; they could be reasonably mistaken for separate characters. Then again, this assumed that Omerta had forgotten. Perhaps he gauged their initial reactions, or merely put up a front to lure their interest.

If the latter, the gambit appeared to work. They hadn't met him before nor known of Floyd's priming. Eve bore a mannequin's poise: her shoulders back, her chin elevated and glancing sideways, her outstretched hand motionless and rigid as the don's lips kissed it. It would've felt as leather, or plastic, save for the warmth and pulse of her rushed heartbeat. "Eve, Ace of Diamonds."

"And a pleasure to make yours!" Faye was more fluid. She curtsied down to his level. Amid the vitriol and adoration, the labels of "traitor" and "savior," she hadn't received a quaint compliment as "gorgeous" in ages. Her blushing cheeks showed her genuine gratitude, like a starving wasteland wanderer presented a five course meal. "And I'm Faye Cannon, the Jack."

In upright posture, Eve placed her rear on the sofa cushion's edge, a hair's breadth away from slipping off onto the ground. She nearly did so when Faye plopped into the couch corner, practically submerged in the plush. Faye swallowed upon the declaration of the reclamation army. Foreigners about to storm her birthplace, and she was to join their ranks. "Excuse me-"

"No, it's perfectly alright," Danny defused. He had a thumb on his lower cheek and an index finger across his lip as Omerta updated him on the conspiracy's progress. He'd hoped to garner repute to inspect the soldiery, to ensure their dependability rather than rely on whatever scraps the Don provided. That said, an entity with influence to gather such resources so readily probably shouldn't be questioned. "It was a prior, now irrelevant, concern. We trust your judgment."

The mention of "House" confused the delegation enough to temporarily set aside their trepidation. Faye looked to Eve, who stared at the floor in recollection. The Ace's mental library hadn't failed her. "A prewar icon, the world's first trillionaire. He specialized in robotics, if I recall." She locked gaze with Nines. "It's quite a niche subject matter. Why do you ask?"

Justin Moore - Fort Golf - Morning, November 19th

Justin rubbed his head in soothing circlets. The evening of drunken debauchery he called "networking" had returned to claim its toll in the form of a massive hangover, worse than usual. Still, he'd fraternized with certain rank and file NCR arrivals sufficiently for usefulness. His career was fraught with instances where the small touches made all the difference. The post session conversation with the janitor that one time in Sac Town was a masterstroke. Let's hope that the good colonel valued the words of his underlings.

He stood just inside the colossal structure's doors as a cadre of troopers intercepted him. "Who are you? State your purpose."

"Ambassador Justin Moore, gentlemen, fresh from Vault 48," he replied nonchalantly, "here to meet with Denver Abernathy, or to schedule an appointment if he's currently engaged. Proposition for an alliance." He smiled. "I had a few drinks with some of your buddies last night."

He raised his arms, an invitation to frisk him. "Better be snappy with it; I've got a date with the Brotherhood of Steel this afternoon as well." The ability to bounce into professionalism from so disadvantageous a mood was what separated the Kings from the Nines. The Meld colonists were likely, what? Sewing, farming, picking off the Green, as he spoke? Nothing hardly as regal as statesmanship.

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

His rotating turrets slowed to a crawl. Hamazasp loosed a sizable yet silent yawn, reflected in a barely noticeable heave from the light 'Mech. He'd failed to ground the Leopard, not that a crashed transport would be possible or wouldn't generate countless more concerns. Nonetheless, his comrades scavenged the base. The time for cautious trepidation was clearly ended, his role rendered obsolete.

He indeed detected the dumb blue metal gauntlet on the crate's side. From his elevated vantage, there was sparingly little he didn't oversee, like yon soldier who quite erroneously thought he could scratch his crotch with impunity. His instinctual reaction was to consider the discrepancies between Commonwealth patron and pirate recipient. Did Steiner even comprehend 'Mechs as puny as the Locusts he fought? And why wouldn't the pirates bring out the quality stuff? He shortly realized that he was calling fate retarded for its mercy. Demanding that God send Sulser an Atlas to fight his Locust and sate his sense of reason was unwise, to say the least.

The minutes lingered, and he spotted a pattern amid his superior's monologue. Despite obviously noticing the mysterious sponsor, Ulrik mentioned it neither across the comms nor to his subordinates. Hamazasp's rule of thumb was that no data was secret unless expressly declared as such (a maxim that had accidentally cost many personal and professional relationships in his dairy career). The Taurian was smart enough, though, to understand treason. "Sir Commander, is this, well, 'conspiracy' now confidential information, on a need to know basis? In case nosy folk ask questions, is all."

His colleagues carried cargo around and through his legs. He made a concerted effort to think still thoughts for, um, likely an hour, he calculated, given the sheer volume of illicit trade goods. "I further wish the record to state that I'd assist if my vehicle had suitable arm appendages." He wiggled his stubs as proof, momentarily forgetting the machine guns attached to them. Perhaps this was how the tyrannosaurus once felt.

Noble Arms - The ASEAN War, Second Thread

OFFICIAL GM POST (Auxiliary); Posting as Co-GM

Diamond Island Convention and Exhibition Center, Phnom Penh, Cambodia - 11/11/2022 05:42 UTC+7

Compromising images and missives paraded on Ambassador Bunmak’s screen. He furrowed his brow. His initial reaction was that his phone had been hacked. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He promptly powered off his cellphone, cracked open the backside, and jettisoned the battery. His components now helplessly arranged on his table, he watched his compatriots gradually consume the same information that befell him. General Pham roared with laughter, beckoning colleagues to witness the embarrassing smut. “Huo Ren, you bastard! You lovable pervert!”

The cheerful Vietnamese likely meant only one thing. His gaze panned to the Chinese delegation, which scrambled to censor the uncensorable. Transparency was an unusual phenomenon for the People’s Republic. Huang Zhang alone maintained decorum, casually clacking away at some manner of file on a laptop.

Bunmak threw his hand behind him, summoning his aide with a couple snaps. He dispatched her as quickly as he received her, with the following instructions: “Check Ambassador Huang. Tell him that we don’t hold him responsible, and ask if he requires aid.” Within this humiliation was opportunity. When all fingers were pointed in mockery, an outstretched hand would be welcome.

As his underling ran off, he glanced towards the sidelined American and Russian delegations. They certainly had the technological capabilities. Was it them? Their confusion seemed equally sudden. There were doubtless malicious actors outside the usual suspects. He must pay closer attention than before.

He approached the Cambodian security officer on duty. “Excuse me, sir. I have suspicions that a malicious actor has compromised this convention. Do you have remedies for this?”

The officer shrugged. “Return to your seat. We’ll handle things.”

Bunmak gave the agent an uneasy look, unamused by such a curt answer. He shook the thought out of his head as he returned to his desk. He’d work to conclude.

The Thai woman made contact with the Chinese man. He nodded as she spoke, then closed and lifted his laptop. He abandoned his own, personally crossing the floor. Huang appeared to be a genuine fellow. Maybe he was that professional. Perhaps he acknowledged the situation's gravity. Either way, rational actors could be reasoned with.

Bunmak stood up and offered a slight bow, which Huang returned. “Distractions can be so unpleasant, can’t they?” Huang grinned, hiding a grimace. “We take care of the situation as we speak. No need for your assistance. Thank you for the offer.”

Bunmak reseated on his throne. “The negotiations we settle overshadow any leak. Thousands of lives are at stake, possibly millions.” He reconstructed his phone. “If I were you, though, I’d disassociate immediately with this… Huo Ren, and collect the remnant pieces.”

“If only bureaucracy was so intelligent,” Huang laughed. “We’re demanding access to and control of the Cambodian internet. The Kingdom sends back… mixed messages. I know I wouldn’t let outsiders through our own firewall.” He reopened his computer and flittered a password over the keys. A bright white virtual page greeted the two. “I took the Philippine proposal and tried to incorporate as much as possible into this new version.”

Bunmak skimmed the document for loopholes. Huang had done his homework, yet apparently conceded on nearly every article. “Looks good,” Bunmak sighed, “I see no reason why we can’t agree to this.”

“Given, well, unfortunate recent events,” Zhang commented, “We want a principal coauthor from across the aisle. Are you interested?”

Bunmak knew. China was too controversial to present resolutions alone. They’d be guaranteed to fail. They needed someone on the outside. Bunmak would accommodate, but not for free. “So long as I introduce it,” he smiled.

Huang and Bunmak saw eye to eye. “I’d hoped you’d say that, Ambassador. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” A few keyboard presses, and a distant printer whirred. Yet more, and the draft was uploaded to a secure shared convention server.

“Likewise.”

The gavel swung, and the ever authoritative voice of Tilki presided over the dying commotion. “As per multiple parties' requests, the People’s Republic of China's and Indonesia's included, the dais waives the remaining recess and calls this session again to order. I hope the additional time was used wisely.” He raised an eyebrow at lingering juvenile snickers at the incriminating documentation.

No more opportune time could be devised. Bunmak raised his voice. “Your Honor, the Kingdom of Thailand presents a draft representing a merger between the previous two. With permission from our peers, we wish to waive the reading and jump straight to the vote. The document should be available for everyone to view, regardless of a vocal reading.”

Soner Tilki checked his computer, then shrugged. “Recognized. Do you have a motion to approve this bill?”

“Yes, a roll call vote, please.”

“I second,” announced the Indonesian delegate.

Tilki called out delegations from across the assembly. They trusted Bunmak, and rightfully so. Every station called out “Aye.” What a surprise for ASEAN members, then, that Ambassador Huang Zhang at last concurred with them. A seamless, unanimous approval. An engineered miracle, earlier than the convention's first lunchtime, no less! The crowd applauded.

Tilki struck his gavel. “Well, that’s progress. At the dais's discretion, we’ll resume the aforementioned recess unless otherwise requested. There are things I wish to do by noon.”

As the delegates rose to fraternize, a familiar trot of footsteps in unison were heard beyond the hall. Bunmak, curious, peered through the doorway to find Lieutenant Channery Chea with her brother and her troop marching downstairs to attention near the building's entrance.

A firm grip held his shoulder; it was the soldier from before. “I told you we’d manage it, sir,” he chuckled. “You do your job, and we’ll do ours.”

@Gerlando@Nimbus@QJT@Amidatelion@Digmata@Chiro@Creative Chaos@DammitVictor

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

He muttered a silent prayer of gratitude to be granted the comfort of climate conditioning and spared the discomfort of those itchy respirators.

Hamazasp was the kind of gentleman who'd, to open a wrapped present, peel off the tape then unfold the paper into a slightly battered quadrangle. His recent adversary lacked that courtesy towards even allied infrastructure. The Taurian beheld the mutilated mechbay portal as he passed it en route to the tunnel network, reminding himself that respect for life and property separated his faction from his foe. Well, that and the bloodthirsty thuggery. And color schematics. A myriad of things, but the former foremost among them. He'd hardly commenced his walking cycle before a swarm of infantry buzzed about him, bounding in their low gravity environment. Confound it, it was cumbersome enough maneuvering his 'Mech without avoiding these suicidal mites!

His leg stalks were each a human's width, the limit of reasonably avoidable but only for those paying attention. Locusts were commonly used for riot control, so perhaps they were less hazardous than most. Still, law enforcement vehicles possessed better methods to ensure minimal accidental casualties. He fumbled for his comms, switched the setting to "Loudspeaker" (in hopes that the atmosphere was sufficiently thick to transmit sound), and alerted his comrades: "Oi, maintain a three meter berth from the legs' range of motion, please, thank you."

One could imagine Sulser on a pair of stilts by the manner by which he tiptoed over the terrain. The method was calculated but appeared clumsy, and occupied nearly the entirety of Hamazasp's conscious thought. He heard his neurohelmet buzz as it tried to keep up with his cerebellum. At last he reached a haven of respite, the entrance that would ideally funnel his allies into formations that wouldn't disrupt his movement. A minor yet audible scratch pealed above the neurohelmet's ring. The additional static hinted that Sulser's antenna scraped the upper surface of the facility. He was precisely the right height, though Lundqvist would be further inconvenienced.

"Oh, come on!" His voice echoed throughout the concrete canyon. "Apologies. Muting self." He returned to normal frequency radio. As if the lifeforms weren't a hassle already, he now faced a hodgepodge of tools, crates, and other knickknacks strewn across the ground. Channeling a concoction of creativity and frustration, he wound his foot back and pressed its flat forward in the attempt to kick a box aside. This was successful, and he'd knocked a couple spanners clear to boot. He'd repeat the process several times, forging an unimpeded path to venture down the tunnels as necessary. "My vehicle comes with high beam headlights. Permission to activate them?"

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

The denouement yielded Hamazasp opportunities to fiddle with his control system's less vital aspects. The Locust's fourth millennium user interface bore similarities to that of his previous Kurita Spider, but 'Mech mastery lay in exploitation of the finer details. For example, en route to diagnostics, he stumbled onto graphical settings that altered the monitor's color. While the option to flood his cockpit with patriotic Rasalhague blue was tempting, he settled for a cozy autumn red, then decimated the luminosity to spare his vision. He pressed the big green "Run Systems Tests" button.

He reclined backward and beheld the ceiling. A sudden urge compelled him to stretch and prod it with an index finger. Did he forget something? Yes, his comrade in arms had hailed him. He activated his communications. "I'm a teetotaler, but thank you for the offer, Jaromir." Sulser released the trigger. Upon reflection, that quirk did preclude him from calling Ulrik Mäkinen anything other than "Sir" or "Commander." The privilege of casual reference wasn't worth drinking a couple of subpar Swedish beers, anyway.

He parsed the (now dimly lit) benchmark for discrepancies against his general knowledge of light 'Mechs. He found one. Ought he to inform his superior? It was no grave issue, but minor issues magnify in the blur of combat. Sigrid's bound to discover then report it to Chief Technician Elena, Ulrik's colossal Slav mistress. Before long he'd be summoned to the commander's office to defend his omission. Beyond that, though, he should tell on principle. "I apologize, Sir Commander. There's a slight warp to my CT armor, likely from laser damage. The internals are fine, but I believe the pristine paint job is compromised." His voice revealed no hint of sarcasm or levity. His recklessness would surely disappoint Sigrid.

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

Hamazasp was grateful to avoid... He attempted to designate the predicament that befell his comrades. It wasn't quite "nuisance," as explosives too well placed could rip a head from its chassis, dealing a fatal blow to the sorry sap inside. And yet that chance was too minimal for the moniker "tragedy," or even "threat." He settled on "kerfuffle." Yes. Sulser had been fortunately spared these kerfuffles. He was not, however, immune to decision making.

His mind ruled out the Hunchback nigh instantly. Squabbles amongst the bulkier classes of 'Mechs were best kept insular. Between Alvin's then Jaromir's requests for assistance, he'd personally fraternized more with the latter pilot, who despite the gruff exterior was a preferable conversationalist to Fuka.

He rotated his vehicle but hesitated just before pulling the trigger. A miss would greatly weaken their already established professional and filial relationships. Zhu had questioned Sulser's training prior, and the Taurian was loath to remove all doubt of incompetence. Perhaps it was diplomatically safer to utilize Alvin for target practice. What fortune that the favorable tides of battle allowed him time to contemplate such quandaries.

Then again, if Hamazasp's aim was poor enough, Jaromir wouldn't be around to bear a grudge, would he?

The Mongoose thankfully tilted the Locust's election towards his former comrade. "Mark on the Trebuchet. Hold still." He clenched his index finger, then pressed his thumb. Lucky shots; total annihilation of the boarders to be. He'd expected to strike the Trebuchet's cockpit at least once. He felt postmature, unearned guilt over that reflection. "Thank you for your cooperation."

Rolls and Damage

S Laser hits for 5 damage
Both MGs hit for 2 damage apiece
Genuinely, I want to miss a shot sometime for roleplay's sake. Hamazasp Sulser has a 1 in Gunnery.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

The Meld - Late Morning, November 20th

A newcomer might have surmised that the entire arachnid class of species revived exclusively in the Meld. Glossy fabrics draped across, sometimes between the rustic wooden furniture. Only the trio encased in it knew the madness's method. The heads of Amber, Isabel, and Charlotte popped out. Bradley was wisely dispatched towards hardier missions: felling timber, repelling the Green's fringe forays, other manly matters. A wedding was afoot, and, absent the tailor castes of old, the homestead's women fashioned a gown suitable for their beloved fiery redhead.

Charlotte, the lone veteran in this endeavor, oversaw the process with senses of a hawk. A yardstick and knife her weapons of choice, she carefully cordoned perfect geometric shapes, then sliced them apart with the blade mastery of the fabled samurai. Amid the performance, her ears perked up. "Who did that?"

Amber wasn't the culprit; she was preoccupied sewing lace into her future headdress. Her machine's clacking slowed to momentary pause. She raised her head in expectation. "Is something amiss?"

Isabel ignored Charlotte's urgent demand. She'd lifted the gossamer substance, fumbling underneath it to locate herself misplaced scissors among the hodgepodge of knickknacks she'd accumulated in this accursed side quest. The fabric was so hastily hoisted that wind rushed to fill the void. It made a bulbous shape as the newly formed bubble pocket settled into drapes.

Charlotte stomped over. Her atypical formfitting jeans insured her against bumping her surroundings. With butterfly's grace and rhino's force, she apprehended Isabel's sheet and inspected its fringes. "You tore it!"

"Did not!" blurted the giant in instinctual reply. "I've managed it 'with ladylike fingers,' as mandated! That edge is perfectly intact!"

Charlotte whipped the evidence off the table with an unplanned flurry (and a planned fury), holding it to a light source. Isabel squinted as she reviewed it. "It's just a small tear."

"It's half an inch!" Charlotte retorted. "Do you realize how much this stuff costs? This is prewar material, not homemade knitting! We need every scrap we can save!"

Seconds away from tearing the rectangle entirely in frustration, Isabel deflated. "I'm sorry, Amber."

The bride to be piped up. "What did you- Ah, sugar foot!" The distraction toppled her concentration, The machine veered off kilter, puncturing the frill before decelerating. Time froze. Amber melted into a smile. "Shouldn't be too long to repair, I hope!" She picked at the twine with her index fingernail.

Charlotte reflected upon the example and sighed. "I apologize. I ought not judge too harshly."

Isabel measured a figure in the cloth. "No, I should redouble my vigilance. Seamstresses we are not, but my duty to the Vault must surpass my inadequacies."

"Thank you, Isabel! I appreciate your efforts." It's often difficult to decrypt Amber's demeanor. Did she casually pay attention, merely refreshing the troupe with playful aloofness? Did she keenly follow the dialogue to apply the exact remedy? Charlotte learned not to discern the two hypotheses, and simply gave a flippant thumbs up. "Let's take five. Fresh air will sharpen our wits."

The giantess stretched. "Eve always had gentler hands, and patience for these crafts. Why isn't she here to fabricate this dress?"

"You know exactly why," Amber lied through her teeth.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - North Vegas Strip - Late Morning, November 20th

Daniel by nature walked fast. Ever since leaving the Vault's fortified doors, he relished the vibrant outdoor environments around him. He loved reaching his destination more. Today, however, he led the way to keep his distance from the sisters. They were excellent schemers, and Floyd's gambit remained active. Each one could probably kill him, and opposed to the duo together he had no chance. The cadre slung rifles besides, making the situation yet tenser. They told Isabel he'd mediate as they mended their former rivalry with a leisurely stroll. Perhaps on their journey to Gomorrah, they'd accomplish that. And yet he heard nothing. Flipping eerie.

Eve identified a stone on her path. She primed her calf and impacted it with her instep. It ricocheted off a rusty metal automobile hull, which clanged louder than expected. Nines nearly ducked; the clamor unnerved him.

Faye finally broke the ice. "Shuffles is alright, right?"

"Last I checked." Eve smiled. "Yeah, he's technically your dog, isn't he?"

"We had a whole discussion about it!" Faye squawked. "You don't remember the fetch competition?"

"I recall the baseball smeared with bacon grease," Eve teased.

"You confounded liar!" Faye laughed. "That mutt preferred me, fair and square."

"Better times." Eve didn't concede, but landed the conversation safely. Pressing thoughts weighed on her heart. "We never found your escape routes."

"Oh, that. I used the vents."

"But those circulate back to Filtration."

"Not if, at the temperature moderation unit, you switch to-"

"The exhaust tubing," Eve concluded. "The carbon dioxide won't suffocate you because those facilities don't operate during lockdown. Clever. Must've been a tight squeeze, though."

"My butt still hurts," Faye commented. She glanced roadside. "Nancy recommended that to me. My mind can't conceptualize that she's gone."

"She was so young," Eve lamented. No admittance of culpability, no casting of blame. Purely a reverent acknowledgment of loss.

Daniel hardly conversed with Nancy in what sparing years they shared, but he recognized respect for the recently deceased. He allocated four minutes for bereavement, until he was barely outside Gomorrah's earshot. "You both understand your objectives?" he announced.

"Plain as day," Eve reported. "I'm to survey the water supply, and rejoin with general understanding of their capabilities in fulfilling the deal."

"And I hang with the muscle, to scout out the best talent in case we're allowed to handpick them." Faye apparently felt uncomfortable regarding the changing fortunes but was too shell shocked to protest.

"To remind you, no subterfuge is necessary," Daniel stressed. "Diplomacy works. We genuinely want to make good on our bargain, and there's no harm in basic assurances. If they play coy with you, return the favor."

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

They nodded and entered the casino in unity. Daniel approached the concierge with a mile wide grin. Would she have knowledge of their confidential history? Of course; she's a secretary. "Howdy," he declared. "We're the gang from the Pinochle Expedition." As if they weren't already immediately identifiable as those foreign yokels. "As per prior agreements, we'd like to offer our services under your employ and double check a few items of the arrangement. Protection, routine maintenance, stacking chairs. Wherever you've use for us, feel free to dispatch us there!"

Eve upheld her chin slightly, while Faye's eyes were distracted by the nearby flashing lights.

Noble Arms - The ASEAN War, Second Thread

Auxiliary Post to Mission Four Introduction

Hello, America! Wow... What a night, eh?

I'd like to thank my wife and daughters, who've tolerated me throughout this entire campaign. I'd like to thank Christ, who's tolerated me a tad longer. Keith out there, my coordinator. Yeah, he's as flabbergasted as I am! To each individual listening tonight, without whom the margins would be yet further razor thin! Also to Mayor Rodriguez. You fought with honor. In this day and age, I deeply respect that.

Both of us recognize rightly that the United States of America is good, a beacon of liberty and prosperity. Today we decided as a nation that she is a force for good. The more of the world we influence, the better it becomes. Now, darkness has covered the planet. I promise you, tyranny shall not have the last say. We will not hide our light under a bushel! The world will witness our qualities! God bless you all! God bless the USA!

Mischief Reef - Remote Operations - 11/9/2022, 13:25 UTC +8

Strange locations often unnerved Adrián, though this was a slight upgrade. The quarters on Mischief Reef were cleared of Chinese hardware and refitted with trustworthy, compatible home computers: a mishmash of old and new. Admiral Abasolo paused his computer work momentarily to view the small television screen in his overly sized office. His countenance bore no elation, merely a curt nod before closing desktop windows and opening others. His fingers furiously clacked away at the keyboard.

From her own smaller compartment, Jasmine piped, "New orders, sir?"

"I'll manage this time, thank you," Abasolo continued. "Continue the back burner duties." His typing was interrupted by the distinct popping of a cork. His eyes shot upward to find Bautista in the doorway. The clinking of glass crystal heralded Bautista's intentions, and Abasolo reacted accordingly. "What are you doing, Lieutenant General?"

"What do you think, Rear Admiral?" Bayani replied. "Celebrating! Didn't you hear the news?"

Abasolo directed a finger to the television screen and resumed progress. "It's the early afternoon, Bautista. It's uncouth to drink during work hours. We can raise festivities later."

Bautista chortled. "The Americans will double their support, and might intervene on our behalf! An afternoon off is well warranted. We need not carry the burden of war by ourselves!" Bautista placed his cups on Jasmine's desk and began to pour. "I brought a cup for each of us!"

"Nonetheless, for significant events, we should attend our posts."

The chivalrous Bautista offered the first drink to Jasmine. "What for?"

The phone rang on Jasmine's desk. She answered it promptly. "Rear Admiral Abasolo's forward operating desk." She looked up at Bautista's face. "Yes, he's here. Why, may I ask?" She gazed off into the distance, then retrieved a pen and paper. After mhms, yeses, and a flurry of scribbling, she promised that "I'll relay the information, sir." She hung up the phone. "The Kingdom of Cambodia reports a breakthrough in negotiations. Laos confirms it. The PRC have requested a ceasefire. The Kingdom offers to host negotiations."

Bayani, realizing that he alone was interested in revelry, lifted his own glass. "To hell with the Chinese! They're scared for the first time in this conflict. I see no reason why we ought to placate them when we have the advantage! They certainly wouldn't have returned the favor."

Abasolo wriggled his nose and sniffled. "Do you have any family, Lieutenant General?"

Bayani shrugged. "My spouse at home."

"I'd prefer to conclude this war with our sovereign territory intact, without losing further close relatives." He glanced aside at a deflated Jasmine. "We've already lost far too many, and revenge is hardly a way to mitigate that." He clicked on mouse buttons. "And sent. I will say it's curious that the Cambodians talked with the Chinese before informing us. Our talks broke down almost instantly, as did those of most of our allies."

"The king passed away recently, didn't he?" stated Bautista. "That's the extent of my knowledge about the place, anyways. Perhaps it weakened their will."

"Take it with a grain of salt, then. I'll keep it under advisement as I write my recommendation to the-"

"Sir," Jasmine interrupted, raising her hand. "I received a missive from the Department of Foreign Affairs. They've already accepted, and they request support from our Arms Masters."

Bautista nodded. "We've gained quite the reputation, it seems, for our accomplishments."

"Indeed," Abasolo concurred. "And protection is not unwise."

"Shall I go inform the troops, then?" Jasmine volunteered.

"No, let Noel handle this. He could use the leadership opportunities. 1800 hours." As Jasmine reached for her telephone, Adrián assured her, "I can handle it."

Phnom Penh - National Assembly - 12:25 UTC +7

Tola Chey swallowed as big text flashed across the bottom of the live feed from the United States. His shaky hands reached into his coat pocket for a handkerchief, which he used to daub his brow. He exhaled as an aide approached him. "Is something wrong, Assemblyman?"

Chey met her eyes. As a member of FUNCINPEC, he was always a dissident on a wide gamut of measures, but nowadays speaking out was dangerous. "What's your name?"

"Phuong Keo, Assemblyman."

"And how loyal are you?"

She cocked her head. "Sir? To... to what, sir?"

Truth be told, Tola didn't quite know himself. "To Cambodia."

She considered the implications, then nodded. "Very, Assemblyman."

Tola exhaled in relief. The answer revealed nothing, but the reflection told everything. He looked around his office. Bugged, probably. "Let's take a walk, Phuong Keo."

They traversed the halls of the National Assembly. Clogging the artery was a large band of Chinese muckety-mucks, talking with their Cambodian counterparts. Chey drew Keo aside as the gathering sauntered past them to acquire lunch. "Is this in preparation for the convention everyone's talked about?" Keo asked, innocently.

Chey resumed walking. "Sure, sure," he dismissed.

The development site at the building's side wasn't amenable to much, but sparingly few people used it for a meeting place. Any construction workers would've taken five to enjoy their midday num pang. It was perfect. Chey could no longer keep his reservations reserved. "We're playing with fire. The Chinese, the Americans. We kept the war a distant diversion, handing it off to the Filipinos and the Vietnamese, but soon we'll be the epicenter. I alone notice it. It's tearing me apart inside." His face turned ghastly pale.

Keo was ill prepared for confidence of this magnitude. Her jaw dropped, yet no sound came from it. After a minute, she replied, "So what's your plan?"

"Plan?" Chey scoffed. "There is none! Only death!"

At that point, the two heard sounds of powerful motors from mighty vehicles. Keo grinned. "Please don't worry, Assemblyman. The new tanks will protect us if something goes awry!"

Chey adjusted his neck collar. "Yes, that's what I'm afraid of."

@Lewascan2@Gerlando@Nimbus@QJT@Amidatelion@Digmata@Chiro@Creative Chaos@DammitVictor