Rhona W

GEARS - Mecha Sci-fi with Anthro characters. RP in a detailed, story-driven world.

Latest IC post is up. Responses to a few conversations, and then a bit of somber memorial... and a party! I probably won't leave it a full week for the party to go on, and get the next briefing up within a few days. Though, I'll give everyone a chance to post first off and have some fun and let all of your hair down.

GEARS - Mecha Sci-fi with Anthro characters. RP in a detailed, story-driven world.

Silverwind sat in the large chair behind his desk and stared at the pair of faces that stared back, hovering on the images in the air above his desk. His left index finger was poised over the virtual keyboard, similarly projected above the surface of the table. Every few moments, he made to type a letter, to write a word, before drawing back and re-considering. The sounds from the main room had drifted down to little more than the squadrons' movements as they came and went from their quarters, and he managed to restrain himself from fully bolting out of his seat when Aidan rapped on the door to his office. Looking up, the vulpine gave a nod as the corpsman indicated the papers, waving him in and gesturing to the chair in front of the desk in his small yet functional ready-room/office.

"It's a stock report and four patient reports for Arcade, Captain Sprinsteam, Aihara and yours truly. I, uh, didn't even know Myrina was hit too, I wasn't announced."

Silverwind dragged the papers across the table, momentarily dismissing the keyboard with a gesture as he retrieved a pen from a holder made out of an old 40mm shell case on the tabletop. "Myrina was a shock to me, too", he added in reply as he signed his name in a left-handed scrawl across the bottom of the papers. "Seems like she was ambushed, and her GEARs' commo system was completely knocked out; the word only came in after the battle had ended. With the heavy interference in the area too..." he trailed off. The rest of the story didn't need to be elaborated upon. He returned the papers to Aidan and looked over at the medic. He'd proved himself to be a superbly capable asset and highly reliable. Blade listened, ears pricked, as the canine described his predicament, and gestured to his wound. The one-eyed fox raised an eyebrow at that; evidently it wasn't too serious, but then a wound was a wound.

"But now, seriously, I am considering to place a request, sir. I know a few good guys back at 137th I trust enough to have them rummage through my own innards for bullets, and that says a lot."

Silverwind sat back in the chair, and nodded. "With the losses we've had, and our general staffing levels, we're pretty stretched out. Not to mention, we're building this unit from the ground up. Between us? I have a feeling; based on my experiences from the past, that whatever we've stumbled into is going to get bigger. If you can suggest anyone else for the unit, then by all means get me a personnel profile together and send it over. I'll see if we can get them assigned." The fox hesitated, and then nodded with a tight smile. Aidan got up to leave, and Silverwind returned his salue with his normal casual flourish. The canine paused in the doorway to offer some last words of support, and Blade looked after him, muzzle propped on both interlaced hands, before he began to type, finally finding the right words. He'd barely started, before another familiar scent tickled his nose, followed by a soft-voiced announcement of Adrians' own arrival. He looked up at the lapine, and gave a slight smile and a wag of his tail at his thanks. "You don't need t' thank me Keel, lookin' after my people is what I'm s'posed to do... despite what happened today. Glad that I did manage to keep y'all outta trouble an' all too." The tall hare made to excuse himself, and Blade gestured to the seat. "Yer welcome t' sit down. Like I said a'fore. My door's pretty much always open if y'all wanna talk. 'Sides, I like the company now an' then too. He leaned back in the seat and shifted, still propping his head up on one hand, before closing down the images. "Y'know, I said before, at the end of that first exercise, that the brass are chasin' our heels. With the amount of drop-outs we've had, combined with the casualties we've had now, we're almost down to half our initial strength. Especially for GEARs, an' that's gonna hurt our strategies in th' long term. We lose any more people or equipment, then the higher ups' ain't gonna need to kill us off". He sighed and shifted again, sitting up straight. "I'm sorry," he began again, "this prob'ly ain't exactly th' thing y'all wanna here t' keep ya motivated, is it?" He gave a shake of his head with a rueful smile. "I'm glad yer with us. Y'all showed plenty of skill in the battle, an' with the trainin' earlier on too. Yer clear-headed in a jam, an' havin' someone with combat experience is always good. Hope y'all decide to stick around as well, an' that we get more of a chance to speak when things aren't so..." he waved a hand towards the desk, indicating the somber affair of the downed pilots. "...bleak. Like I said - if y'all ever need anythin', then lemme know. In the meantime, I guess I'd better do my commanders' duties, and start writin'". A few short hours later - sooner than he'd have liked - Blade stood in the hangar, which had been temporarily re-arranged. The GEARs, most of the way through their maintenance and with their exterior armour still removed, were each covered in drapings the royal blue colour of the Landren flag. Myrina and Arcades' own GEARs had each been moved to the head of the bay, polished and waxed, and draped with a sash bearing the devices and symbols representing their pilots' own awards and accolades. The rest of the ships' complement, barring essential personnel, had turned out for the short memorial service. In the centre of the bay, the two blackwood tree caskets gleamed under the bright lights. Each was draped with the standard of the LDF. Blade stood at the head of the group, his dress uniform virtually immaculate and cutting a dashing, if severe, image. The Roughriders had been detailed to stand at the front of the assembly, with the rest of the group behind them. The last few members of the assembly filed in, and the nervous shifting, coughs and murmurs rebounded around the stillness of the bay, before Blade eyed the assembly. Casting his single-eyed glance around, he drew himself to ramrod straight, and bellowed in his best voice: "DETAIL! A-TEN HUT!" He waited for the shifting of feet coming together and bodies coming to attention to fade, before he stepped up to the podium. "At ease," he said in a quieter, more somber tone. "Thank you. We gather today to remember and honour the lives of two of our own. Each of us has pledged our service to the ideals of the Landren Defence Force, and all of us stand ready to answer the call to arms and duty. "Many of us have faced danger in course of our service; some of us have even come back from the cauldron of battle wounded, either inside or out. None of us can predict how we will react, how our colleagues, our comrades and brothers-and-sisters in arms, will react emotionally, physically or otherwise when they are faced with the insanity of the battlefield. We can only hope that the oaths we have sworn, the training we prepare our hearts and minds with, and the people we stand alongside, will be enough for us to face down the challenges upon us." He paused, looking out across the arrayed faces. He looked over the arrayed ranks of the ships' crew, their varied features, fur, eye and hair colours, the men and women looking back. He saw sadness, fear, anger, and all manner of emotions. He looked at his own people, his Roughriders - what did they think? What words were going through their minds? He straightened again, and continued. "Arcade Ruthless and Myrina Michelete were both experienced GEAR pilots, and LDF personnel. Both of them had proven their skill and expertise in numerous missions, operating with professionalism, skill, dedication and finesse in their careers. While other commanders may have questioned their methods, citing them as 'problematic' or defiant, the force of their unique characters, their strong and versatile personalities, made them the dynamic people they were, both in and out of combat. The achievements and records speak for them," he said, gesturing with one hand to the GEARs flanking the assembly on both sides of the bay, and standing twice the height of the assembled Arvarans. "And they will live on. It is important, for all of us, to remember the people they were, as well as the things they have done. While they were not part of our brotherhood for long, they were influential in our formative stages, knitting us together and helping us define what it means to be one of the Roughriders with their driving personalities, influential ideas and tactics, and their words and thoughts to all of us both in the Roughriders and aboard the Parvan's Claw. He paused. What more could he add? The pair of them had been good fighters, had done their best, and bad luck and overwhelming force had taken them down. It was a strangling, complex web of feelings that ran through him, and no doubt through the rest of the crew as well; the realization it could happen to anyone would be strong. What more could he say, how he could he shore up their doubts and fears? Gripping the edges of the podium, the electrofiber muscles in his left arm humming quietly, he cast a one-eyed gaze over them all. "Lieutenant-Colonel Michelete and Second Lieutenant Ruthless were expert warfighters in their field. None of us here could have predicted what would happen to them. Their being cut down in the line of duty is a sad and terrible thing. But we must use it to become stronger. Their memory is something that will bring us together, unite us in their loss and departure to become better, harder, more resolute and more dedicated. This way we go forward with them strong in our hearts and minds, so that others may survive and endure, and their losses were not in vain. Stand tall with me now, and let us all remember them well, fondly and proudly." Once again, he called the room to attention as the Landren National Anthem played. As the music reached its' crescendo, he raised a salute, and held it for a few moments, before lowering his hand. Smartly turning on one heel, he marched to one side of the podium, where Captain Garrett, also dressed in her own formal uniform, presented him with the folded flag from each coffin. He'd turn them over after the ceremony, of course, to another crew member. Myrina and Arcades' remains would be released to their families, along with the folded flags. It wasn't much, but it was something. The doe saluted him smartly, her crisp white glove touching the brim of her captains' cap. Blade returned the salute smartly and slowly, his own glove pausing just at his eyebrow, below the rim of his beret. They held the posture for a few heartbeats, before each smartly turning 90-degrees. Blade joined the end of the Roughriders' line, and Captain Garrett took the podium. "Thank you all," she said in a crisp, clear and calm tone. "We shall all remember Michelete and Ruthless. They were invaluable to this crew, and to this vessel. As is customary, there will now be a gathering to celebrate their lives and achievements in the mess. Please, if your duties allow, join us there to toast to their memories. Company, dismissed" Everyone began to drift away as they fell out by ranks. The captain nodded toward the Roughriders, stepping briefly to their side as she made her way out of the hangar. "Ladies, gentlemen; you'll be pleased to know that I'll be fetching a bottle from my own personal stash to raise in a toast with you all to the memory of our friends. I hope to see you in the Mess shortly." She nodded and headed off, before Blade turned back to the others. "Okay, folks. I ain't gonna make it an order... but I'm sure as hell heading to the mess, an' raisin' a glass or twelve to our departed friends, and to our own lives and futures. I'd appreciate it if y'all join me. Drinks are on me fer the first round, and I'll be happy to talk my jaw off with all an' any of y'all there." Silverwind lead the way up to the mess. The counter was stocked with a small assortment of spirits, beers and wines from the limited array normally kept under lock-and-key on the land-ship, and a small buffet of foods had been laid out. A table draped with black cloth at the end of the room held framed photos of Myrina and Arcade, both from files of friends, or from social networking or albums on the 'net. Between the photos, a Roughriders uniform jacket had been laid out. Scrawled signatures and memorials were slowly increasing across the jacket, added to as the guests at the wake drifted to the table, raising a glass to the photos. Blade stepped almost straight to the bar, pouring himself a fine helping of amber fire-whiskey (the spirit of his home region in Landren), with ice, and moving aside, exchanging brief greetings with others. "Drink up, team," he said to the others around him. "We have to let our departed know we remember 'em as the hell-raising, ass-kicking, stubborn, stalwart hard-as-nails Rough-Riding mothers they were. We mourned 'em, now we celebrate 'em for the hell-raisers, heart-breakers and life-takers the Roughriders are. Here's to them!" He raised the glass with a loud bark, and gulped almost the whole amount down his muzzle, and shouted: "ROUGHRIDERS!" The rest of the room cheered, and Captain Garret gave him - and the rest of them - a cheer and a smile. Smiling to his men and women, he looked to all of them as he spoke. "I'm sure y'all might not be aware of this, but you're not the first Roughriders I've been part of. There was another unit, some years ago, that I was part of. We were good, really good. Irry-" he indicated the red panda, who nodded and held up a glass "had a brother who was part of it an' all. And Captain Garrett also worked pretty close wi' us too. Anyhow, we had a whole buncha traditions, things I think that oughta carry on to this version of the unit too". He smirked and cocked his head. "Maybe if the drinks flow well, I'll teach you all our song-" (Captain Garrett coughed into her hand and hid a smile. Silverwind didn't notice) "-One is, we celebrate our fallen, an' fight hard fer all of 'em. Like I said 'afore. Y'all did well out there, an' I'm proud of all of you. Y'all have earned a celebration, an' ain't no one who disagrees with us raisin' a glass or five to our fallen. We'll get our own back fer 'em. Let's do 'em all proud!"

Thunderbolt Black (Fighter Pilot Mercenaries)

GEARS - Mecha Sci-fi with Anthro characters. RP in a detailed, story-driven world.

Okay guys... I realise I may not have left the most exciting openings for people to post, but I also don't think I need to rail-road everyone into things. We've now had almost three continuous weeks of only one or two people posting (and many thanks to those of you who did post IC! Your posts have been great). What do people actually want from my posts? Why aren't you talking to each other IC? I'm not about to throw us right back into combat again, or introduce NPC's to talk to your characters. Or is it OOC stuff keeping people away? Either way, I'll get another post up when I'm able, but it's getting kinda ban-hammery in here right now.

Warplanes: Sky Warriors (Current RP Needs 1-2 more players!)

I'm in, this is my jam.

Task Force Lima (COMPLETED)

I thought I'd give someone else a chance to post first, since Scott's been the first to answer the last few times.

Thunderbolt Black (Fighter Pilot Mercenaries)

I get easily confused and miss things sometimes. I'll edit the post later. EDIT: Changed the post to correct my F-15 references.

Thunderbolt Black (Fighter Pilot Mercenaries)

New post is up, plenty to react to, including meeting each other. I'll probably get the next one up by the weekend, as in my experience, character chat doesn't tend to lead to much posting. The briefing will come next, but I thought I'd give you all a chance to talk to one another and have a breather before we dive right into the mission itself.

Thunderbolt Black (Fighter Pilot Mercenaries)

Scott watched and gave an affirmative nod and a brief thought of thanks to who or whatever was listening for each of the squadrons' planes that made it to the deck. Even the most routine of carrier landings was still a hair-raising prospect to anyone - successfully landing a multi-million dollar supersonic aircraft on a moving ship many times smaller than a normal runway with limited fuel and the possibility of any one of the thousands of moving parts on either going wrong was something that made one question their sanity. It was no wonder that each landing bordered on an emergency at the best of times.
The two F-15's, a C and a Strike Eagle that came in were both damaged and raised many eyebrows. One was smoking and wavering, and the crash-crews were on standby as the sleek aircraft landed - but thankfully, there were no issues with either aircrafts' landing. Everything else went smoothly, with only Kat's A-10 suffering from low fuel as it approached the boat. With the sudden scramble and the attack on the base, it was more than likely there weren't enough of the KA-6 tankers to go around - otherwise, he imagined the Thunderbolt would've been directed to refuel before attempting the landing. Either way, she made it down successfully too, completing a full recovery of all the aircraft currently assigned to his command and the small but potent squadron.

Scott looked on with curiosity as the group of pilots assembled. He noted Misaki getting into a tussle with the deck crew and inwardly winced; any pilot worth the name knew that cussing out the maintenance group was a surefire way to end up with a whole heap of resentment, and a bad working relationship. That would be something that needed looking at. If the F-2 had been grounded, then there would have been a real and serious reason for it.

"Here they come," said St. Helen, looking on as the pilots approached. "Remember anything about any of them?"
"More than you'd expect," he replied with a smirk. "Do you?"
"No, I don't have to command them. I just make sure you don't get yourself and me into trouble when we're flying. You got the big job, remember?"
"Thanks for reminding me."

The pilots mostly clustered around him, in a momentarily quiet spot of the ever-busy deck (in fact, he was surprised they hadn't been hustled out of the way yet), and the introductions came thick-and-fast.

"Dmitry Aleksei Novikoff, codename Stalin, at your service and it is an honor to be part of your squadron. Dobroho ranku, good morning. Uh-" he threw a glance over his shoulder at the next aircraft to land on the carrier to see if it would land safely or if it had to loop around for another attempt. "Actually, a pretty bad fucking morning, da? Glad everyone is OK."

"Knight One I assume?" Rodriguez asked before saluting the pilots. "Rodriguez Hefferman; callsign Spirit reporting in. I'm afraid the circumstances of our meeting here were not under the best of terms."

"Call-sign Charnel reporting in." he said with a beaming smile "Though my friends call me Marciano, good to finally meet you all face to face and also while not getting shot at."

"Callsign Kat reporting." She glanced at the others, waiting for further orders as they were. She knew trying to ask questions would be useless and only add confusion.

St Helene stood to one side, as Scott returned the salutes all at once, his own salute somewhat casual and relaxed, but still showing a good edge.
"Thanks, everyone. You're right; I am Knight One, otherwise known as Heartbreak, or Captain Valentine. This here's Razorblade, or Lieutenant Commander Carter. I'm your CO in the Black Knights; welcome t' the show. That was some mighty fine flyin' I saw up there, especially accountin' for the hasty scramble an' all too."
He looked over the faces around him; all of them were different and varied in appearance, and represented a good cross-section of the Mercenary Company as a whole. Momentarily he found his eyes drawn to Kat's feline ears, dwelling on them a moment before smiling and nodding to her as he continued to speak.
"Maintenance'll take care of yer planes fer now. We got a briefing scheduled with General Thomas - Thunderbolt One - but I ain't aware of the time and location other than 'on the ship', so I'd suggest y'all fall out to the mess hall, get some chow and relax a little. I'll come join you shortly when I get the scoop on the meetin' location, and we'll get a... 'informal meet' in too, so we can actually get to know who the heck each other are." He shrugged apologetically and scratched the back of his head. "Hate ta say it, but I'm as thrown inta this as you are. I did have notes and slides an' all that crap... but they're not much use right now under three feet of water, or burnt to a crisp. Anyhow - Razorblade'll show ya the way. If you'll excuse me, I gotta go rescue our Japanese pilot from bein' thrown overboard".
St Helen beckoned them to follow her into the conning tower, and lead them below decks and forward, away from the busy and active carrier deck, and into the bowels of the ship, toward the forward mess. The thump and crash of aircraft landing or taking off was a constant presence, as was the continuous stream of men and women going about their business, keeping the floating city alive.
After a half-dozen ladders and doors, the short redhead lead them into a bustling mess hall, and the queue for food. Breakfast had evidently been extended, given the chaos, and there was a hustle to the room, along with the buzz of conversation and the mouth-watering smell of food. Like most PMC's, Thunderbolt Black ate better than the military, but with the same efficiency in the kitchens service.
Scooping up a plate of food - bacon, eggs, hash browns, and the rest - she lead the way to a table and colonised it for the squadron.
"So," she said before tucking in. "Hell of a first day as a squadron, right...."

Up on the deck, Scott headed over to where Misaki held a bloody rag to her head, as a deck crewman stood facing her, looking awkward as she ranted about her jet. Scott was about to step in, before the maintenance Crew Chief stepped up, a look like blood-and-thunder on his craggy face.
"Hey," he ground out, his square jaw set and a furious look in his face. "You're the pain in the ass that's chewing out my crews for doing our fucking jobs, right?" He glared at her. "Well, you wanna know why your Viper was in maintenance, it's because our pre-flight maintenance inspection found a fatigue crack in one of the engine compressor blades, so we had to pull your bird in for emergency maintenance on the engine. In other words," he said, deliberately spelling it out for her with a point of his finger, "We pulled the bird off of the flight line, because if we'd let it fly, it would've blown up your plane, and possibly killed you So just to get it straight, we saved your ass. He backed up and shook his head. "Fucking flyboys," he growled, and waved his hand, dismissing the argument. "Your jet is fixed, and being finished. It should be ready for your next sortie, your highness".
He gave a passing glance to Scott with a nod, before he headed off to take care of the next plane coming in with damage from the fracas over the island. Scott looked back to Misaki, and raised an eyebrow, nodding to the gash on her head.
"How's the head? Need to have Corpsman look at that for you? I'm Heartbreak, your new squadron leader. Good job getting that F-15 back on the deck in the shape it was in... though I hope you don't bring all your birds home in that way. Come on - if you're okay without the doc, then the rest of the squadron are in the forward mess. I'll be sorting out a briefing".
He picked up her helmet and handed it back, before giving a slight amused smile.
"And... as a word of advice; feel free to ignore it, at your own peril... Maintenance crews love the planes as much as their pilots. Anything they do, they do with a damn good reason. Pissing all over their decisions? Not gonna help you out in the long run. And I need every pilot and every plane in my squadron at their best... unless you wanna find someone else to fly with".
He shrugged amicably and headed into the conning tower, directing her toward the mess, and the rest of the squadron.

In the meantime, he headed by the ops room and got the info - their briefing was in an hours' time. It should give them all enough time to change out of their survival gear and into regular flight suits, and decompress a little from the hectic combat they'd endured. He also found the room they'd be meeting in - thankfully, it wasn't due to be occupied before their briefing, and that gave him a chance to snag the area and have a little meeting of his own.
Giving a sigh of relief that at least something was sorted out, he headed for the mess hall and the others.

St Helen had been chatting to everyone. She'd explained how she and Scott were introduced to one another and had flown with Thunderbolt Black in another squadron, before Scott had been tapped to stand up as the lead for the replacement 101st, which had been temporarily disbanded as resources were shifted around. She mentioned that they'd both flown F-14's during the war, and a little about some previous contacts, before Scott reappeared.
"Hello, campers" he sai with a nod. "Good news, our briefing isn't for an hour, so that gives us a short while to get our heads together. The briefing is in the main briefing room on deck 5. Gives us a chance to sign our flight gear over and change out of it, and we can get a brief introduction to each other, and I can let you know a little about me, too. Then I guess it'll be time for the bigwigs' address to us all. Finish up your chow, and we'll get on it."
Scott gathered himself a snack-breakfast of a pastry and a cup of tea, and sat at the table with the rest of them, his helmet alongside him. He nodded to everyone as he looked around. "Hell of a day, but at least we got breakfast. Glad you're all in one piece too. Some of those landings were mighty impressive."

Thunderbolt Black (Fighter Pilot Mercenaries)

Well, this evening didn't work out how I'd hoped, so I didn't manage to get the post up. I will do it tomorrow though. Apologies for the delay, but RL gets in the way some times, and you can't do anything about it.