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Futuristic NCQuest: Mecha flavored action, Story

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"I'll stick to observing for now," said Peyton. Then Streuben walked past her and announced that he was leaving.

Shit.

She nodded towards the Linker. "Good night."
This is bad. Really bad.

On the surface Peyton looked indifferent but inside all of her usual alarms and red flags had appeared. If Cammy and Streuben didn't solve this on equal terms then it could lead to something very, very dangerous. Peyton wanted to go out and scream at her colleague for screwing up but she knew that it would only make Cammy act even worse.

She's like a fucking child.

Jennifer glanced out at Cammy just as she did the finishing touches out by the grill. Shaking her head slightly Peyton goes back outside. "We need to talk," she says with a stern expression. "A real talk. No bullshit."

Peyton pointed towards the house. "Streuben left. Just up and walked home."
"You need to fix this. Call Halliwell. Call anyone. I don't really care- just fix it. If you don't you're going to spend the rest of your career looking over your shoulder because right now you're the only proof that Streuben, socially awkward and introverted Streuben with truckloads of money, is not invincible."

Jennifer cursed and changed her expression into one of concern. "I've met men like him before. They're dangerous when hurt. Give them weapons, power or a giant mech and they're even more dangerous."
 
Alone with her thoughts was easily the worst place for Cammy to be. An overactive imagination, coupled with a mind overflowing with a multitude of practical knowledge to bring such imaginings to life, and a strong biological drive to 'do stuff' tended to send her down numerous dark and twisting roads if left to her own devices for more than a moment. By her estimation, the meat on the grill had about ten minutes left to go. In theory, she could go inside and join the others, but she knew she'd probably get wrapped up in whatever was going on there and burn the food.

Not to mention 'he' was in there. Self-isolation seemed to be the wiser decision, lest she do more damage.

Less than thirty seconds had passed since Streuben's departure and Cammy already had her phone out, scrolling through her list of contacts, seeking some way to pass the time and someone to pass it with. Unfortunately, this device was relatively new and still rather sparsely populated; most of her contacts were in her living room right now. Texting someone who was barely twenty feet away sounded like good, stupid fun, but not the kind of fun she was looking for right now. She barely noticed when Peyton arrived, until the woman spoke.

"We need to talk," she said with a stern expression. "A real talk. No bullshit."

"If that's what you want..." Cammy said, her face still buried in her phone. She only lifted her eyes for a moment, respectfully meeting Peyton's, before returning to the screen.

"Streuben left. Just up and walked home."

"Good for him. I hope he's happy," Cammy said, finally giving Peyton her undivided attention. She was about to download a random dick pic and send it to Halliwell as a joke. But, with Peyton in 'serious mode,' now probably wasn't a good time for that.

"You need to fix this. Call Halliwell. Call anyone. I don't really care- just fix it. If you don't you're going to spend the rest of your career looking over your shoulder because right now you're the only proof that Streuben, socially awkward and introverted Streuben with truckloads of money, is not invincible," Peyton said.

The urge to roll her eyes was strong, but Cammy kept her facial features in check, mostly out of respect for Peyton, not any fear of the wrath of Streuben.

"I've met men like him before. They're dangerous when hurt. Give them weapons, power or a giant mech and they're even more dangerous."

Cammy took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, flexing as if she was about to do some heavy lifting. Her signature restlessness was on full display. With a sigh, she turned to Peyton and shoved her phone back into her pocket burying her hands there with it, and bounced on her feet.

"I don't know what's more pathetic: his fragile ego or your fear of it," Cammy said carefully, while calmly rocking on her heels, casually swaying in a nonexistent breeze, despite the levity of her tone. "Ya know, I'd feel really shitty if this was about me touching his ass. If he actually felt sexually violated or whatever, I'd apologize and apologize and apologize until my jaws go numb... but that's not what this is about, is it? I appreciate your concern, Pey, but don't talk to me like I was born yesterday. I've looked over my shoulder my whole fucking life and I've definitely seen his type before -- I'm related to one -- so don't lecture me on that, okay. Thanks."

Her eyes drifted skyward as she finally stopped to take a breath. The moon sure was beautiful tonight.

"I notice he didn't answer when I asked why he calls his NC 'Emperor,'" Cammy said, her attention snapping back to Peyton with a frightening suddenness. "You know why. I know why. We all know why. And we all know the mortality rate of rookie NC pilots. The writing on the wall is clear: one of us ain't coming home one day. And anyone who thinks, 'it won't be me,' needs to pull their head outta their ass. I for one, have never lived a day of my life feeling 'invincible,' even in a fucking NC, so if I gotta pull it for him, I will. I'd be honored to."

Finally, her hands came out of her pockets. She folded them across her chest. "But, please, tell me how I should 'fix this?' If I was gonna call anybody, I'd call Rosa. Word on the street is she's played this game before and came out on top... numerous times. But putting that fucking man-giraffe in the ground seems a little... harsh. I just wanna knock him down a peg or two... or twenty..." she scratched her chin, "which is funny because, until you came out here, I didn't even wanna do that. Now I do. The more I think about it, the more I don't want to just walk away."
 
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Adam couldn't help but smirk in Hazel's direction as he responds. "Well, games like this is one of the main means of entertainment I have. So yes, that's the plan." He hoped that neither of the other two Linkers were sore losers. Sure he wasn't actually going to go all out against them but neither was he going to make it easy and Adam really didn't want to deal with someone who couldn't deal with having a challenge in a game.

Navigating the menus with practiced ease he quickly had them setup in a standard deathmatch with no special rules. The map was a fairly simple one, a sizable two-story fort surrounded by a few ledges and hills. The fort's layout wasn't very complicated, but it did have enough walls and the like to let players have fun with the terrain deformation feature the game had. "I figure after this match we can each have a match where we can pick a special rules set. Like I'd imagine from what she said earlier Hazel might pick the one that causes only explosive weapons to appear on the map. But for now, unless there are any questions lets get started with this match."
 
As Cammy spoke Jennifer remained silent and, as she finished, she simply crossed her arms and shifted her wight from one hip to another. Her face seemed have adopted a neutral expression which masked every part of the anger that was boiling within her. Yeah, sure. Do that. Ignore every word that I said and do whatever the fuck it is you want to do.

Exhaling slowly, Peyton blinked. There was no point to this. She cleared her throat.

"You know what Azata? You're right."

"You say you're not invincible but you're really fucking arrogant. I'm not telling you to drop to your knees and beg for mercy- I'm asking you be careful because assholes like him can get real imaginative as far as payback goes. The fact that we're all Linkers isn't exactly helping the situation either."
She shook her head. "Do whatever it is you want to do. It's not like you'd listen to anyone else but yourself either way, right? I figured I'd do you one solid and watch your six but by the sound of things you don't need that."

Jennifer exhaled and shook her head once more. "Your party was a real blast, see you at work."

"Watch your back."

That said, she spun around and promptly walked out of the garden. As she passed through the house Peyton refrained from looking at anyone and the Linker was as silent as a ghost up until she slammed the door shut behind her, vanishing into the night.
 
"Arrogant?" Cammy muttered to herself after Peyton had left.

Even though she knew Peyton meant well, that didn't stop her words and her sudden departure after them, from landing like a slap to the face. 'Arrogant' was telling someone who'd lived in the badlands her entire life that she needed to 'watch her back.' Bandits. Cannibals. Rapists. Murderers. All manner of psychopaths. She'd seen it all, survived it all, and came out the other side relatively sane, with only a knife wound or two and a bad attitude to show for it. But she needed to watch her back because she'd angered some rookie NC pilot? If she wasn't so pissed off, she'd laugh.

It wasn't that she didn't feel Streuben was a threat. Of course she did. Anyone and everyone could be a threat. And she would face him when --or if-- he decided to make a move against her. But, that was kind of the problem. Would he even make a move? Was this even worth investing energy in? Was it worth losing the one friend she thought she had?

Friend? Cammy thought, biting her tongue as she returned her attention to the reason she'd come out here in the first place. Food. The grill. Sustenance. Fire and blood. Basic necessities. She ain't my fucking friend. We went through one mission together. Big fucking deal. She doesn't get it. She's never gonna fucking get it. None of them will.

Maybe this is what 'civilized' folks do when they're free of the basic struggle for survival, When you don't have to worry about food and shelter and who or what might try to knife you in the dark, suddenly things like who likes whom and who is allied with whom and whose career is going up or down or sideways suddenly feels soooo much more important. But she felt as if she was above --or maybe below-- all of that, as if all of those things inhabited a plane of existence different from her own. Perhaps she was a little like Streuben, in that way. Arrogant.

"Heh," she said with a slight shrug as she removed the steaming foil-wrapped package from the grill and placed it on a tray. "Maybe I am fucking arrogant." She sighed, an odd mixture of amusement and sadness. "Whatever."

She swaggered back inside, balancing the tray on one arm and the bottle of Huntsman in her other. "I got snacks!" she announced to no one in partcular as she made her way to the kitchen and began skewering the grilled meats and vegetables. Bits of chicken, beef, and pork were applied to wooden skewers, for easy consumption. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't gourmet five-star dining, but it was food. At least until the pizza arrived.

Cammy transferred it all to the plate, which she carried into the living room where the others were gathered around a gaming console, and set it on the table for all to reach. Normally, she'd snatch up a controller and jump right into whatever they were doing. But, she found herself not in the mood. Streuben was gone. Peyton was gone. About a third of the partygoers were gone and she couldn't shake the feeling it was her fault. So Cammy just curled up on the couch, taking deep swigs of the bottle of Huntsman and watched.
 
Episode 2: Curtain Call
The day simmered down.

The party was at a lowered tempo, but the folks who stayed managed to have something resembling a good time. Simple discussions about nothing in particular peppered the atmosphere of the building as the Linkers involved dialed down a bit and had a laugh or two at the games Adam brought along and at each-other's misfortunes in them. Still, the late afternoon explicitly turned to night, and eventually everyone had to go home before the early hours of the morning. Life had to be lived.

The deeply clouded suggestions of rain turned to actual rain as the hours after midnight rolled by; a heavy, torrential rain that battered down everyone and everything outside until almost the entire state was damp and wet. Moist asphalt, waterlogged concrete and drowned grass was evidence of alarmingly heavy precipitation, and the fact it was only going to get worse. The weathermen of the area were perplexed, as what was expected to be just another, if particularly wide-spread rainy day turned to a veritable downpour that seemed fated to last at least a week.

The days of that week went by, and the rain rarely let up; only hours at a time at most before the clouds started falling again in discrete drops. The rain turned to mist over time, as the city itself was coated in a notable fog. Anti-flood measures were activated, draining the onslaught of water in basins and redirecting traffic from vulnerable areas, the like. Lives went on, moving around the issue until it went away. Umbrella sales definitely skyrocketed.

The rain was noticed by more than just weathermen. The opportunity didn't apply only to people who sold galoshes.
 
Written in collaboration w/ Windsock Windsock​
Episode 2: The Morning After
"Well, that fucking sucks," Cammy said, looking at the time on her phone. She wasn't quite sure when she'd passed out on the couch. She remembered the last of the guests leaving. She remembered drinking alone afterwards, lulled by the gentle patter of rain outside. And then... daylight. To her disappointment, it was only 10AM.

I still have most of my clothes on. I haven't thrown up anywhere. And I'm up before noon, she thought as she shuffled to the kitchen to dull the mild throbbing in her skull. And I'm barely hungover. What a fucking lame party. Didn't even get in any fights. Well, not physical ones, anyhow. She didn't even kick that guy in the nuts, despite promising she would. What an utter failure.

Cammy sighed as the coffeemaker began to percolate. "We'll get 'em next time," she whispered as the black gold began to dribble into a dirty mug. "Gonna wreck his sack so fucking hard..."

She wasn't actually disappointed, of course. The party was mostly an invitation to hang out and chill, so she never expected things to get turned up to eleven. Other than the clusterfuck she'd started outside, everyone seemed to have enjoyed themselves. Hadrian turned out to be an okay guy, so letting him go home with his manhood intact was acceptable... for now. And Hazel, Adam, and Nico seemed to have low-key enjoyed themselves. And Rosa...

Cammy frowned as she stared at her phone, turning it over in her hands as if it were some alien device of unknown purpose and potency. She still hadn't sent those dick pics to Halliwell and could use a good laugh right now. But, nevermind that. After considering it for a long time she decided to send Rosa a text:

"hey. wanna say thanks for dropping by. You were my fav uninvited guest. and most of my food survived!" She added a shocked emoji. "But seriously, thanks."

Cammy reflexively hit 'send,' before her darker impulses could make her delete the damned thing. But, as usual, those same impulses won in the end. After a few seconds, she sent another text:

"BTW that dont mean you should do it again. Jus sayin. Still uninvited."

She tossed the phone on the countertop because surely Rosa wasn't even awake yet and wouldn't reply anytime soon, right? Wrong. It dinged with a reply almost immediately, as she went to the fridge to find something to spice up her coffee. One thing the party had done was restock her (already full) liquor supply. Why'd everybody give me booze? What kind of girl do they think I am?

"You're short so I did my best not to take too much nutrient. U gotta grow big and strong!" was the veteran linker's response, along with an image of a bulging muscle.

Okay, smartass, Cammy thought as she prepared to fire back, but Rosa wasn't done yet. Her phone began to light up with a barrage of follow-up texts from the woman before Cammy could reply.

"more srs I know something's up with you and that giraffe now."

This shit again? Cammy thought, rolling her eyes as she poured a few drops of bourbon into her coffee.

"hell of a poker face but anyone can sense his energy. Don't worry about it!"

Dink. Two more drops.

"There's beef and then there's BEEF, I should know. You went from dust-rat to city-rat so nobody can blame u. Just try to clear it up asap, but later."

Dink. A little slower, this time.

"He's weird but not stupid!! Sometimes you need to let people stew so they have time to think it over too."

And, one last time, a final message. Something repressed was in the waiting period, almost intentionally conveyed as an after-thought.

"We could take him anyway lol"

Okay, fuck the coffee. Cammy took a long swig of the bourbon straight from the bottle and waited, wondering if the woman was done yet. When nearly a full minute passed without another text, she figured it was okay to reply now and slid the bottle aside in favor of something more breakfast-appropriate, although her coffee was pretty much 1/4 bourbon by now.

"i ever tell you about the time i got run down by a pack of bandits and this snarky bitch in an NC watched and did nothin but i forgave her and let her in my house and even called her the next morning to say thanks for droppin by?"

she took a long, methodical sip of her coffee after hitting send, but her fingers continued to work:

"its cool story. almost died like five times."

"point is i dont like beef. got no time for it. movin forward like i always do."

"already apologized anyway. his move. tired of talkin bout it."

"textin bout it."

"u know what i meant."

She stuffed her phone in the blender and shuffled toward the stairs, coffee in one hand and a slice of old pizza in the other. New day. New things to do. New people to do it with.
 
The Morning After​

Despite last night's events Peyton's mood went largely unaffected the morning after in spite of the harsh weather that followed.
After scouting out a stretch of roofed tarmac- used by supply crews as a road for their forklifts and power loaders- the usual routine of a morning jog was commenced.
Jennifer was dressed in similar training apparel which mirrored the outfit she had worn the other day; low-profile training shoes, black tight leggings, a camouflage-pattern sports bra and a ballcap with a faded Ares Security logo embroided on its front.

With music in her ears the Linker jogged up and down the road as vehicles and crew passed her by. The tarmac wasn't the most optimal bedding for condition-oriented training as it would produce sore feet and the road itself wasn't the most calm of environments either as vehicles honked and crews catcalled, providing ample distractions and sources of annoyance.

For Jennifer however the coastal view from the road was tough to surpass and even with the added risks and distractions the clear view of the now untamed and stormy oceans were simply awe-inspiring as it represented something wild, primal and utterly untamed.

Then again she'd trade it all away for the freedom and feeling of a woodland sprint surrounded by nature rather than metal and concrete.
Just thinking about it made Jennifer smile as her ponytail bopped up and down in response to her movement.


After a final lap it was time to head back to the barracks for a shower. According to her schedule she had some minor appointments to take care of with the afternoon culminating into a lot of free time.
Stepping through her door Peyton immediately noticed that something was wrong and her right hand instinctively reached for a gun that didn't exist.

Cursing, she looked at the figure seated on the far end of the room. A sharply dressed man in his late forties or early fifties nodded towards her.
"You haven't lost your touch one bit, Miss Peyton."

Jennifer narrowed her eyes. "Have we met?"

The man shook his head. "No, no we have not. I work for CRONUS." He gestured towards her bed. "Please, sit."

CRONUS? That can't be good.

Relaxing slightly Peyton made her way towards her bed and sat down. "You can skip the formalities, sir. Just tell me what this is all about."

The man nodded. "Very well," he said in a calm and collected manner.
"My name is Kovacs. You can call me 'Mr. Kovacs'. I am a company representative with CRONUS sent to oversee our more delicate endeavours. In this case I'm here about your last mission."

Kovacs raised an eyebrow. "Would you care to walk me through it?"

Peyton nodded. "Yes sir, from the start?"

"From the start. As much as you can remember," said Kovacs.
 
EP 2/3 Intermission: Dockyard
The calm seas outside the port were riddled with the rough waves characteristic of a coming and slowly worsening storm; the ocean's horizon covered in a fog even thicker than the one currently overhanging the city itself, not to mention a good portion of the countryside surrounding it. The dock itself was descended from another dock that sat in the same spot a few centuries ago; still wrapped around Chesapeake bay. If, only, a bit higher now due to a somewhat raised sea level. Other than the basic geography, the bay would be alien to anyone from the time period of the 21st century; like a fever dream where everything is mostly the same, but never looks quite right, everything misplaced or moved or changed. It was still obviously a dockyard, of course.

One of the ships docked here, its shipping containers being carefully unloaded by crane, was a ship registered in the Commonwealth; the resident leading-power of the whole of the Americas. The ship in question was the Pearlman, coincidentally the same ship that a certain Linker was tasked with escorting a few days ago. Allegedly transporting some vital material or another, two particular containers were loaded onto two specific trucks. What would've been interesting, if anybody in the know was watching, was that those two shipping trucks happened to be military-use models. Foreign ones; an older model that a certain Ruling Company didn't produce for its in-house security teams anymore.

Fully loaded, the two trucks were later found to separately rendezvous at a warehouse that was leased under the purview of a small corporation that didn't actually exist. When the trucks were fully unloaded, and the containers opened up, one red-headed young man dismounted from a classic-style motorcycle, then went up a set of railings to an observational office-deck overlooking the storehouse. The redhead notified his superior of the success of his mission.

"Well, they're here. Should be rebuilt by the end of the day.", he said, stroking the back of his head. He was making sure through his contacts, and his own eyes, that nobody followed them before he came up. Thankfully, it looks like that part of the deal was done; as he was interrupted from pulling out a cigarette. His associate slowly looked up from what he was doing; mulling over a map of the city, something between resignation and annoyance hidden behind his eyes, themselves only betraying a steely disposition.

"Good.", was his only answer at first, fully standing up from his examination and plotting. There were a few pieces already on the map; representations of his forces and a plan involving them. A few dark green boats, along the coast; sitting besides some trucks and missile pods. Some lime-green models of heavily armored troopers next to a train, standing at attention. And some planes, floating on sticks and uniquely blue; a big, brutish leader amongst them loitering like a fattened seagull greedy for more.

"And...", the Field-Lieutenant droned, as he slowly walked to the shorter, younger man. His thick combat-jacket merely accentuating the difference in size and power; of a trained special forces commander versus a simple 'logistics technician'. Standing closely next to the man, he asked something. "...Did you get to fulfill my request?"

The shorter man, completely unintimidated, was visibly surprised at remembering something, happy at the occasion. "Oh! Yeah!", he squeaked, reaching into his pockets. Pulling out four little figurines, he handed them over; perfectly lime-green models of some kind of robot. The walled-off disposition of the Field-Lieutenant immediately changed, a simpler emotion that was far closer to an innocent amusement or happiness; tinged by the slightest smile. "Excellent.", was his only response; as he carefully put the four little robots next to his power-armored troopers. They looked really good.

In his mind, anyway.

His solipsism was interrupted by a question. "...How are you gonna get them into position?", the ginger asked, as he ignited his stick of tobacco.

"None of your concern."
 
EP 2/3 Intermission: A meeting room, somewhere.
The short, black-haired man looked on, dejected and bored; awaiting his new contact and passing the time like a child in a doctor's office, kicking his legs and finding busywork for his fingers. He was wearing a rough plaid-shirt, unbuttoned a few times and hanging loosely off his smaller frame, just like his work jeans that didn't quite fit either. To pass the time, he was flossing his gleaming white teeth; already sharpened to a point resembling something not quite normal for human dentures. Anyone in the know would immediately recognize this man, since he made something of a name for himself in his circle. The combination of his particular look and the implant at the back of his neck just confirmed it; and the creepy, unnatural shade of his eyes didn't help matters at all.

Thankfully for Corbin's boredom, the door opened a few moments after the clock hit three, just as scheduled. Fucking finally. He looked up, quickly; his contact wasn't entirely dissimilar to himself in appearance; another shorter fellow, the most notable difference being a more rugged complexion and a head of ginger hair in a buzz-cut style. The Linker stopped flossing and threw the used dental rope just anywhere behind him, not giving a shit about it anymore.

The ginger let two other men in after him; bigger, burlier men wearing black combat jackets to contrast his biker-use equivalent. Obviously armed with open-carry holsters, Corbin wasn't intimidated whatsoever and was more interested in what the two grunts were carrying between them; a box of something or other. Looking on like a child checking out a new machine in an arcade, he hid his excitement and let the three form a triangle at the other end of his table.

"Before we talk-", Corbin said, "I want to see the goods myself. Bring it to the table. Now.", and the ginger eyed the Linker, with an amount of confusion. "Are.. you sure? It's heavy. Like... really. People forget how heavy it is until they-" "Bitch. Did I stutter?" The 'Logistics Technician' sighed and shrugged his shoulders, motioning for the two strongmen to place it at the hard-oak table the Linker was sitting at. Doing their best to gently place it down, the table audibly creaked and struggled to maintain its integrity at the still all-too-sudden influx of weight.

As the box opened, that seductive, subdued glint that drove men of power to incoherent madness worked its magic, tugging at the strings of greed in the Linker's heart as it did so many others over countless millenia. The most seductive metal of them all; Gold. Honest, ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine percent pure gold. It looked delectable; like the sweetest, most forbidden fruit in the entirety of the Garden of Eden. Two fruits, that weighed a hundred pounds each!

Even if it was only 'millions' of Inter-Corporate-Credits worth; it was still gold! It was money you could touch, that you could caress and lick and- Okay, probably not that far. But it was gold, and gold was good! It was solid and dependable, instead of the ephemeral digital bullshit of ICC. With a devilish smile, Corbin expressed his continued interest, ignoring the equally smugly amused, 'We got you now, don't we?' smirk on the ginger's face. "Okay, you earned my attention. What do you want me to do?"

"It's simple-", the technician started, pulling out another cigarette. "-Just assist us in a... show, we have planned. We'll fill in the details in an official contract later." Corbin raised his eyebrows at this; an official contract, too? Could that mean...? "You're going to pay me twice?" The Linker asked, excitedly. The biker tapped the imprinted badge of authenticity on the gold bar to the left of Corbin, "Yup. There's more where this came from. Half now; half later."

Corbin quite nearly lost his shit at the thought. Four hundred pounds of the stuff! And to think, on top of that, it was all vintage straight from Fort-Knox!

He didn't think to ask how a terrorist organization managed to get hold of gold bars straight from Fort-Knox.
 
Episode 2 Aftermath: A Meeting room in Downtown New Baltimore
Sterile white walls. Cold marble floors, smooth as glacial ice. Pure white lights, recessed in clever nooks and crannies, carefully placed to cast no shadows.

Elena Halliwell had been in this building many times before. This particular skyscraper, protruding from the heart of downtown New Baltimore like a stainless steel dagger aimed at the heavens, had changed hands a dozen times in the last two decades. Each company tailored the building's interior decor to their own personal taste, or lack thereof. She always found the changes interesting. Her inner psych nerd couldn't help but wonder what these aesthetic choices say about the corporations who make them. Does psychology even apply to corporations at all?

Certainly, she thought as she entered a meeting room. A corporation is a thinking entity. It has a mind. Or, rather, a collection of minds, working to enact a collective will. A hivemind, basically. And, like any thinking entity, it could be manipulated, cultivated, coerced...

The sharp clicking of her white heels on the stone floors echoed in the building's cavernous halls, like a ghost quietly rapping on a mausoleum door. She entered a meeting room where a well-dressed man was waiting. He ushered her inside with a friendly smile, a firm handshake, and gestured toward an obscenely large roundtable, around which twelve chairs were situated, all empty. A council chamber, the hivemind's brainbox.

His name was Miles Benjamin. They weren't strangers. She first met him many years ago when he was a naive young intern for some tech start-up that no longer exists and she was the cool, confident broker who played his boss like a fiddle, but deigned to give him a bit of friendly advice after the contracts were signed: "get out while you still can, dear. I know a place you can go..." Even back then, he had the look of someone who could do 'better.' And he did. Seven years later, that tech firm was no more and he was the vice president of marketing for Valkyrian Starworks's North American division.

Was it a random act of kindness or merely a savvy handler planting a seed she'd reap years later? Only God knows.

The two of them exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes and likely would have done so for much longer, but Halliwell steered the conversation toward the reason they were both here. He probably thought the change in subject was his idea, but she sat at the head of this round table. He just didn't know it yet.

"I'll get to the point," Miles said, running a hand through his slicked blonde hair. "This company is looking for ways to turn the corner. We build some of the fastest machines known to man and... well, we have a saying around here: 'you can't punch your way through the sound barrier.' It requires finesse. Precision. Expertise. We build scalpels, not sledgehammers. Our quality control is second to none. Our factories are so clean you could eat off of them. It's all wonderful, isn't it?"

"Of course, all of that comes with certain... misconceptions," Halliwell said, nudging him along. She didn't come here to sit through a sales pitch. "You need to prove to the world that your machines can survive real-world abuse. The footage of yesterday's mission proves, without a doubt, that my client can provide that... and more." She leaned in. "You saw what she did to the JX-455. Surely, you can make a better engine than General Requisitions. It's your specialty, after all. Can't let them beat you at your own game, dear..."

He knew she was goading him on. And she knew that he knew. What she was really looking for was any tells, any hint that he wasn't 100% confident in his company's product. She saw none of that. The man beamed with the confidence of a proud father as he tapped a device on his wrist, activating a holographic projector in the center of the table.

"The JX-455 is a dinosaur, built by knuckle-dragging Neanderthals. The council liked that footage you sent --loved the way that noisy lump of scrap burst into flames-- even more than I thought they would," he said as a translucent image of a sleek, white jet engine materialized before them. It was shaped like a spike, conical at both ends, and completely smooth, with recessed vents near the inlet and outlet. For a moment, she couldn't even tell which end was the front and which was the rear. An exploded diagram showed the engine' inner workings, which had faaaaar more moving parts than she expected. Halliwell's knowledge of jet engines was admittedly small, but she was fairly sure they were supposed to just spin, not flex and change shape, and whatnot. Every single internal component seemed to be articulating or adjusting, as if it was fine-tuning itself to stay at peak performance at all times.

It's complicated. Maybe too complicated, Halliwell thought. She's not going to like that...

"I knew they'd give us something. I never suspected they'd give us this," Miles explained. "The VS-222 hybrid jet engine. Only three working prototypes exist. The council has volunteered two of them, just for you, Miss Halliwell, to do with as you please. As well as access to the minds who created it. These engines were designed for our hypersonic rail project, which was scrapped. Apparently, supersonic trains are 'fast enough.'" He chuckled at his own joke.

While he spoke, she was studying the details of the image. Tiny print near the bottom said "Version 10.25.3305." So, this was the tenth iteration of this engine? Did that mean it took them ten times to get it right... or ten times before they gave up? Also, it's header said "Project Quetzacoatl" in bold font. Valkyrian Starworks tended to name their projects after legendary birds or winged creatures. "Phoenix," "Thunderbird," "Seraphim," "Dragon," etcetera. Quetzacoatl was none of those things.

"It uses cutting-edge aerospike technology. Reverse thrust capability. Variable-geometry compressor and stator blades," Miles went on to say. "We never gave it a proper name, but the R&D team called it the 'Gnasher.' It rolls off the tongue better than 'Meat Grinder.'" He queued a clip of the engine strapped to a test stand, at full throttle, with its afterburners ablaze. Frozen animal carcasses were being released from a tether and sucked into the intake. Nothing came out the other end, just dust. And the engine seemed to give zero fucks, even as it shredded dead cows and a moose or two. "It was supposed to be a test to see how it holds up to bird strikes," Miles explained. "But, things escalated quickly... as they often do around here."

"You have my attention. Let's talk details," Halliwell said. "Price?"

"Free. The publicity is worth its weight in gold. We want Miss Azata to use it, be seen using it, and beat the ever-loving shit out of it to prove to the world how strong it is. Pardon my French," he grinned. "To that end, you can't paint it. It must stay Valkyrian white. Our logo must remain visible. We'll hash out specific color formulae, size, font, and placement in the contract. And, needless to say, this beauty doesn't use off-the-shelf parts. We'll supply the necessary components for maintenance and repair. At a reasonable price, of course. And all we ask in return is data and publicity."

Something told her this might be too good to be true, but this was a five-year old engine, after all. They were probably giving it away because they couldn't find another buyer or no one was willing to pay what it cost to build. If she hadn't come along, it would sit in a warehouse collecting dust, alongside Val Star's other wacky projects. The VS-222 was too specialized. Where else in the world was there a need for a ground-based jet engine that can swallow an elephant?

"They're currently mothballed at our Nevada site, but we can have them re-commissioned, packed up, and on a transport plane by the end of the week," Miles said. He seemed to have sensed her discomfort and was trying to sweeten the deal by saying he could get them shipped to her quickly. This was exactly what she wanted him to think. In reality, she felt like he was practically giving them away... but she didn't want him to read that on her face.

"Nevada? Hmm.... no need to rush. I have an idea," Halliwell said with a friendly smile, and his brows rose with interest. Her 'ideas' tended to work out very well for him. "If she gets her paws on it and sees what's going on inside, Azata's not going to like this. It's too... complex. Too high-tech. She can't fix it with a hammer or tweak it with a rusty spoon," she said, gesturing to the VS-222's image. "But, she's easily distracted. She'll accept it if we... how do I say this... let more open minds do the wrenching, while her attention is elsewhere."

"You're suggesting a distraction, while our people handle the installation?" Miles said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

"Precisely. She'll love these new engines, once she feels what they do to Raijin's performance. But if she sees what goes on under its skin... it'll kill this deal before it gets a chance. Get me in touch with your logistics division. I have a private carrier I'd like to use to deliver the engines, at least for the last leg of the journey. She'll love it. Everybody wins."
 
Episode 3: The Siege of The City of New-Baltimore
It was the eighteenth of March, 2471. The atmosphere was choked with a nearly smog-like mist, and the downpour that spawned the thick fog. Both the rain and its spawn were already a week old, and projected to last at least as long, again. Yet, now was the time that certain groups had set for a particular event, a big show.


The train chugged on and on; or rather, kept creeping up the linear line with its separated linear induction motors. The two conductors at the front of the vehicle were exhausted, but thankfully their journey was almost over. The one to the right looked over, putting his cap back on with the same motion; finishing his laid-back look with a hat that wasn't quite on the right way. Wiping away something from his thin, graying mustache, he told his compatriot something, with a voice that would remind one of a grandpa that always made sure to get the biggest, most expensive toy for his grandchildren every Christmas. "Run a check while I'm out, would you? I think I'm gonna be in there for a while...", which the junior officer in charge nodded to. "Aye, boss."

The young man checked the instrumentation as his senior left the cockpit, taking the time to check systems; namely, the motors as requested, along some other important systems. Mumbling to himself, he went over the subsystems one by one. "Section 1, linear motor.. okay.. air.. okay...", before he reached the third section; two modules behind him. "Huh.. Motor 3 went out. Hardly noticed. Let's see the diagnostics...", he thought aloud, as his mind went over the manual in his memory.

The error code was strange; he never saw that one before, even if he wasn't all that experienced. It was so foreign he needed to make sure his boss wasn't looking, and got out his cheat-code that served him so well up to this point; a hand-sized manual he kept under his seat. He knew Robert hated it. 'Can't have everything ready at hand, young man. You got less than two or three seconds if something comes up on the job; not enough time to get out the manual and read it over! You should know this stuff like the palm of your hand, even all the little details...'

That may be true, but he was going to refer to it whenever possible. Besides, you can't complain when you're in the shitter, Robert! With a sly smile, the lad went to the diagnostics sub-section of the book, and referred to the individual error codes. Skipping everything he recognized, he came to the code in question; 'REM-D-010'. So the 'REM' stood for 'REMOTE'.. that means either the sending or receiving train station remotely switched something. That's funny...

As his eyes focused on interrogating the manual, he noted he felt as if they were slowing down; but before he could even look up, he was quite nearly thrown towards the cockpit's window-screen, impacting against the dash like a sack full of potatoes. All too sudden, the adrenaline didn't kick in until he was already wanting to scream in pain. Struggling to get back up, he rotated his head to investigate his right arm, that didn't quite want to move as he wanted it to; already seeing far more blood in his peripheral vision than what suited his taste. His mind raced. The train must've been commanded to shut off all the engines, and then the emergency brakes must've been activated.

But, he noticed something else at the other end of his peripheral vision...


The big, metal mass jumped to the right of the slowing train; shoulder-tackling it as it landed with the force of a small bomb, like a giant linebacker. The entire train was jostled off the track in one swift motion, rolling to the left as it did so; lighting up the darkness of the Superfreight tunnel's intersection the same way sparks from a sheet of metal would brighten up the middle of the night. Sliding against the concrete, the cockpit glanced off the stony sides of the tunnel, before the whole train crumpled up like a dying snake; fatally wounded by a blow straight to the head.

The machine that did this gawked at its handiwork, and began maneuvering around the train. It was something like an NC, but far smaller; 'only' eight meters tall, and looked far more conventional in design, akin to a light tank that grew legs than anything else. Comparing it to the natural world, with its two big clawing arms, and legs bent the wrong way, it looked something like a cross between a crab and a chicken, to put it bluntly. Coated in sheets of armor and with slowly spinning gatling-cannons aimed at civilians.

The metal mass revealed itself to the screeching passengers of the vehicle, those who managed to get back up and tried to escape; their method of retreat was blocked off by what were similar towering behemoths, metal monsters arranged against them that appeared as if out of thin air. As their terrored screaming intensified, their eardrums were blown by vicious war-horns ordering them to stay inside, or the entire train would be shot straight to hell with rapid-fire autocannons. Masses of panicked sheep rolled over other masses of panicked sheep, as the leader of the gang of towering walkers, the same unit that de-railed the linear line, came to the side of the de-railed vehicle, being followed by multiple squads of heavily armed soldiers trailing its giant metal feet.

The soldiers suppressed the mass of humanity back inside with the occasional loosing of mis-aimed small arms fire, as other men in what looked to be exoskeletal power-armor suits jumped on top of the train itself and welded things shut, throwing flashbangs into compartments as punishment for daring to resist.

The powerful walkers took charge of the perimeter, eying the various entry-ways of the arterial they were at with vigor. The apparent squad leader stood at the middle of the chaos, taking in the tactical situation and phoning in the success of the first phase of the operation to his superiors. "Maxwell Team reporting in. Phase one is complete; we have the hostages.", he proudly reported, sitting comfortably in his cockpit. Streams of data flooded into his viewscreens; as his infantrymen themselves reported the successful installation of demolition charges on the ruined train, and his fellow walker-pilots gave all-clear signs.

A certain Field Lieutenant's voice responded, grimly accepting the report. "Roger, Team Maxwell. We've sent the demands; hold up the situation. Support is available at your request." The leading unit armed its principle weapon; a revolving cylinder that blasted two-meter long stakes of depleted uranium directly into the next motherfucker that went past him without giving in to their demands. He heard his opponent would most likely be Neural Combatants; and he adored the thought! Until then, he'd hold this line as ordered, hell or high-water.


Past the coastline, a lone patrol boat emblazoned 'PT-107' was investigating a floating field of junk, the leading man aboard joking with his crew about the banality of the mission they happened to be on, huddled in the cramped 'bridge'. "-I know, I know, it's always policy to..." he started, before changing his voice appropriately for what he said next, a boring, drawling tone. "... Investigate any and all threats, real or perceived, to shipping operations with the utmost seriousness and sincerity..." before one of his four men, the helmsman who was close friend of his, told him. "Yeah, we all memorized it. I'm just wondering what the hell that garbage scow managed to get into. That did look like a pretty big hole..."

The boat captain rolled his eyes, looking at the mists absentmindedly. Admittedly, it was pretty creepy lately; but that didn't mean naval mines from before the Disaster suddenly activated or whatever the hell their excuse was. He forgot. "Probably just bumped into something sharp. Any readings on the sonar or radar?", he asked, to which the man reading the sensor console replied negatively. "Doesn't look like anything sir-", before he was interrupted by something. One ear on the headphones, he quickly put the pair on entirely; listening in for something. "Hold on. Sonar tone. It's strong, too. ... Whatever it was, it just broke up.", before the captain of the patrol boat told the helmsman to steam towards the signal. Only a stern, silent minute passed, before the sensor-specialist heard something again, the hull bouncing away bits of flotsam as it rushed to investigate whatever the hell that was.

His eyes widened as he heard another tone, greatly different now; from the radio. His voice broke with panic. "Sir! It's an anti-ship-", was all he could get out before the boat was rocketed by a sudden wave, flipping over in the air after a full-sized anti-ship missile collided with the water beside it. Before it could right itself or the men could even disembark, the hull was blasted at by a barrage of high-explosive shells from long range, the carcass being flown over by a small horde of drones cruising overhead; shortly thereafter, the entire misted horizon being overshadowed by a far greater predator coasting above. The small boat was blasted into smithereens, the pieces of hull soon becoming indistinct from the film of flotsam it was sailing through, engine oil and blood mixing together with the waves.

Zooming past, two larger ships, proper ships of the type used by militaries to land forces on a coast, rushed into the freshly-made breach in the Coast Guard's network of patrols and sensor nets. Their sterns were followed by military hovercraft, bringing up the rear of the landing force. As soon as the main event was sprung and reacted against, they'd have ample time to set up.


Called to base by a loud notification from their MAVERICK-assigned devices, the various Linkers attached to the resident MAVERICK facility were roused to meet up at the pad by 2:45 at the latest; carefully meandering through the fogged environment of the concrete jungle to the nearest stations of their private-use line. It seems the private line was already in use before that day, automated train-cars needing to be called in instead of resting at their usual waiting spots.

Still, by the time the clock hit 2:45 Ante-Meridiam the Linkers were already at the base, escaping from the installation's own station to the surface, meeting again with the constant drizzle of rain and fog that recently permeated the base too, now. Unusually, there were new vehicles nobody recognized on-site; civilian models, fine ones too. It was unlikely, but anybody attentive enough would recognize that they looked to be the Governor's personal vehicles. Still, the gang of Linkers barged through the main door to the Mission Operation Center...


The first thing they would see would be an unfamiliar face in the familiar setting of the fully renovated briefing and planning room. The lightly portulent old man was easy to put an identity to; the Governor himself, apparently personally requesting assistance with the recent incident, which was still unclear from the earlier notification. Raving with two others who would be more recognizable as some of the Handlers attached to the base, more specifically Lennard Malthus and Sarah Nielsen. It took the old coot a moment to process the situation, before he exasperatedly noted their presence.

"Oh, thank god! Finally!" was the first thing out of his mouth, waving about at the coming Linkers. "Let's skip all the bullshit! There's hundreds of hostages in the superfreight tunnel; you have to save them!", before he was shut down by Malthus, as per his usual want. "Look, you geriatric bastard.. This is an emergency by your standards but Linkers aren't legally allowed to launch until it's official business! So, finalize a contract and then they can launch! What part of that is so difficult to understand?!", lovingly summarizing MAVERICK's intentionally-designed legalese.

Sarah, as per her own want and more importantly her job description, promptly handled the situation and offered the simplest solution. "Sir, a verbal contract is fine-", she started, before she motioned for all the Linkers. "-As long as all parties are present. So, the next part is that the possible contractors need to be sure of the situation you want...", looking for a more polite word, evidently. "...Mediated... with their expertise. So let's start over?"

The old man managed to calm himself down, mostly by snidely dismissing the legal bullshit he probably would've loved to use if he was on the other end of it. In the current situation, it was costing him precious seconds. "Fine, Fine.", he spat, before he took a deep breath. "Those terrorists, those 'Kids of Zebra' or whatever the fuck they called themselves now, have derailed a passenger train in the Superfreight tunnel. It's full of people we wanted to have work on our city's infrastructure! Almost four hundred skilled laborers! At least one of you has to try and save them!", nearly working himself back to a panic; clearly begging for help.

The room wasn't empty besides these three; two more people, apparently the Governor's staff he brought along, were sitting at a nearby table and divided between a conversation on the phone and a laptop. The other Handlers were nowhere to be immediately perceived, probably setting things up in advance.

It was already fated to be a busy day, today.
 
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Episode 3: BriefingFREDRICH-ALEXANDER VON STREUBEN
To some's surprise, he also responds to "Tower-Upright."

The day had begun early, as they usually tended to do ever since his deployment here at New-Maryland; from the towering spire in the middle-downtown of the city, he had taken an express train the day prior directly poised towards the military base. From there, he went on through the myriad corridors, took a big personnel lift along with the other Linkers' maintenance crews just outside of the main top-side hangar. All the whilst mixing words with his own technical supervisor, Johnson. Listening in on his sporradic jokes intermittently placed along an extensive debrief of how they managed to fix the admittedly tiny damage done to the machine in the previous mission. It had taken an entire week, but apparently the entire repair exercise would become more time-efficient the more damage the machine would suffer. Something about 'opening up large sections just to find a tiny fragment.' The entire exercise was yet another lesson in how he would never learn to understand how the Emperor worked, after all if Johnson were to say 'from amongst the seven NCs I've worked at, man. This one's the worst,' it clearly implied complexity beyond his own imagination. He could do little but re-affirm their own relationship as he said it, responding with a detached "and that's why you get what you do," only for Johnson to make a coy look with a questionable smirk.

The lift took an approximate 5 minutes, neither slow nor fast, as it carried with it over 40 people per descent. With their destination reached, the lift's walls quickly opened up to windows overlooking the massive underground hangar, of which his own machine stood first amongst the row. Not far to walk, after their inevitable arrival, some crewmembers having already arrived, or were in the middle of their night-time work-schedules. Streuben, clad in his traditional emblemized trench-coat, except a different one since he forgot the last over at Azata's place, moved slowly towards the gargantuan machine.

Every time he did this routine, always around the same time every day, he felt his artistic persona flurry with an ever increasing ferocity. With Johnson having overtook his stride, clearly intent on randevouzing with the rest of the maintenance crew, Streuben was left to his own devices as he slowly meandered ever closer to the hulking goliath's feet, the machine's pridefulness and massiveness demanding of him to ascribe it with tribute, and as such, seven hours of relentless painting exercises, intermittent with regular testing breaks, and engine diagnostic runs, came to be. All for the sake of a simple, but powerful, in his own eyes anyway, stample across the machine's aggressively regal, angular chest. The words "Emperor" electronically carved into the numerous layers which constitute an NC's external surfaces, all done in rigorous processes so as to ensure homogenous strength across all the exterior; a skill which he had learned quickly, only because he wanted to do so.

The thought that he was the same as his machine all but removed from his conscious; he was merely a pilot, the designator which decided where the painting itself would go, nothing more. The painting, the "Emperor," spoke for itself. And had its own attitude. He gave it nothing but colour and artistry, the canvas of which already had its own personality in the GR development yards.

He descended the work-scaffolding, and took a seat by the diagnostics terminal, an area of which Johnson maintained close watch unless he had to show some of the junior team-members how to screw a bolt properly, or re-attach a plate securely. Streuben had little intent to speak about the machine itself, Johnson already having received a coffee delivery for the two of them, leaving the two to take in the form of the machine in their own seperate manners. Though Johnson had a thing for talking, if it wasn't already obvious per his already out-going and shouting expressiveness, and he would direct that urge toward Streuben as he took another sip from his already exploratory sip of his coffee mug.

"You do know it seems a bit pratty, right?" He spoke with mellow intonation, but retained a certain matter-of-fact quality to his perhaps intentionally quiet words, though Streuben was unaffected, his already stoic character defending him from most sudden interactual engagements. "I know. Though when it showed up here, didn't it feel like it just..." He quieted, his ponderous engines engaged as he continued to gaze across the machine's myriad surfaces, all angles and all surfaces, remembering how they were before his skills had begun festering across its skin. "stood out? That's what I felt anyway, and I'm trying to hold onto that feeling." Johnson couldn't help but chuckle at the oddity of his employer, he certainly wasn't very familiar with Streuben's kind. If there even were more of him somewhere out there. "So what's next? Already got two Coat of Arms, you just gonna add more of them with every mission?"

"Perhaps," Streuben immediately re-engaged, as he took a massive chug out of his already inordinately sized coffee cup. He was a serial coffee abuser, after all. Some people seemed to think he couldn't function without it, considering how little the man seems to entertain the snooze. They didn't seem to care much, since only a select few of them could even entertain conversation with the man for any prolonged period of time, and he always seemed the same, no matter the time of day, or the circumstance. "Though I probably couldn't fit more than seven, considering the meaningfulness of their placement." Johnson didn't really understand what that meant, so why not prod even more? They had 20 minutes of break-time after all before the final full-engine test. "What's that s'pposed to mean, man? Can't you just put a bunch of them next to eachother, y'know, medal-style?" Streuben nodded briefly, before he took a more ponderous sip of his coffee. He entertained the thought in his mind, mapping out the surfaces by the shoulder where he already had two of them positioned out. Maybe across the chest, underneath the name, where focus is placed. Though he finally settled that it wouldn't have the same dynamics behind it.

He raised his hands from their static position across his long legs, moving them in some form of strange pattern, as he began speaking, having put down the cup on the floor for the express purpose of the 'presentation.' "Could work, though not for long. But with a symbol which shifts its properties during active combat, it retains more meaningfulness throughout that engagement." His thoughts began to exchange with his spoken word as he did, though the entire reason he had such a good relationship with Johnson was because he was a bit of a maverick himself, and didn't seem to get lost in Streuben's thoughts. "But with the Tower on the shoulder, it shifts, and rotates in half-circle when the PC is engaged. Thus it retains more meaningfulness in its visual presentation than a mere decorative ensamble of 'missions completed' badges. With the Tower's reversal, it symbolizes change; no matter in what form."

Johnson entertained the concept, but quickly dismissed it. He didn't have the same discriptive manner of visual acquity as Streuben seemed to have. What he looked at was what he saw, and what he saw, he learned how it worked. A problem-solver, less philosophy, more engineering. Though the entire conversation did remind him of something Streuben had brought up a few days back, and as he turned his head around to see into the Hangar's numerous other bays, he crossed eyes with some of the crew for the Seven, that PMC gal's machine.

"You finished that card-thing you talked about, by the by?" Streuben did little beyond shove a hand back down one of his innumerable hidden pockets, a metallic plate elaborately decorated with hard angular lines, and a form of depth which seemed to grasp the eye with every attempt to go deeper into the image. Johnson couldn't help but deposit another smirk as he took the plate from the tall man's elongated hand, a quick whistle only serving another homage to the craftsmanship Streuben had given it over six consecutive days. "Give it to her crew when we're done with the full-engine test," the artist promptly stated as his technical supervisor flipped the thing over, trying to see how the light could perhaps interact with the portrait of Jennifer Peyton's NC. "To think that you don't charge a dime for these things," he finished as he finally put it down.

Streuben only chosing to finish off his coffee at the commentary, looking back up towards the Emperor, appreciating its presence as it seemed to tower against the heavens from where he was seated. The embroidered name, perfectly incorporated into its plates, only serving to empower its mental prominance within his thoughts. Though simultaneously, he returned to the metallic card. WIth the use of modern-day technology, he had transformed the design into a digital file. Easily manufactured. Productivity had its own beauty, he recognized.

...
​
He had spent the entire day deep below the surface, observing as each team went about their own unceasing maintenance processes. Some teams could get by with only a handful of mechanics, whereas others needed more extensive repair-works to get the machines battle-ready at any moment. And almost as if by cosmic interference, just as each team finished up their final checks, and overviews, the alarms blared. Streuben's seated position was shifted, as he took towards the incorporated stairway; the lift would take far too long. Ironic, as his own steady but snail-like pace would place him far in the back of anyone who chose to wait for the lift to descend. Though it mattered little, for as he took each step upwards through the many levels of the stairway, he crossed paths with numerous of the base's more executive suits on his way towards the Briefing Room.

Whilst it hadn't taken him long, it did take him longer than some, his own meandering and hyperactive thoughts looking to prolong his journey far beyond the necessary time-scale. Though it did ultimately matter little, vehicles had surrounded the office in a form of cordon, model and make anywhere from civic to military. Though few people seemed to defend that perimeter. It seemed like foot-traffic had instead centered around the Office, it seemed a mission was being mixed with the very oxygen he breathed as he entered into its confines.

He was met with a rabid scramble, an official-looking man fervently engaged with the two Handlers he was most experienced with. One of which he disliked, and another of which he tolerated. Not in the expected order. He took an inconspicuous seat along the briefing room's corner-most placed chairs as he waited, and listened, as the rest of the Linkers stationed by the base trickled in, and the conversation between the now apparent Governor of New-Maryland began to heat up.

Though by the time the last of the Linkers showed up, the briefing-seeming drama at the rooms core took a far more rational turn, as it seemed the problem itself was far too urgent to be irrational about it. Maverick held a lot of power, Streuben recognized. Not only then, but many times in the past. Stories are far and wide about its continued necessity of extra-national behaviour, and how it could pose a problem. Monsters of steel beholden to seemingly no-one was an issue in anyone's eyes, and that's why MAVERICK exists. Though he couldn't help but appreciate the irony of how MAVERICK itself is considered the necessary middle-man, whilst they are themselves beholden to no one and nothing. Money? They could take it if they wanted to, as was immediately obvious considering how the Governor had been out of his mind about this apparent hostage crisis.

Though considering the war-drills he had undergone before, if the Sons of Zeus, or any militia, had the power to hijack the most vital asset of states like New-Marylands infrastructure, the superfreightway, he doubted that would be the extent of it. Maybe they had already infiltrated small businesses, and were getting ready to contest the streets. Nevertheless, it was a good mission. Hardly anything which seems immediately dangerous, though the erratic words of the Governor didn't seem the immediately best source of information-reference. Even if he would choose to say nothing for now, he would definitely be able to deal with the freightway. Though his confidence surprised even himself as he went about the facts once again inside his head.
 
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"So what did he want exactly?" Asked Alice as gunshots rang out in the background.

"He-" began Peyton as she inserted a fresh magazine into the carbine in her hands with a loud click "-wanted me to debrief him and promise to keep him and, indirectly, CRONUS in the loop on things."
Alice frowned and grunted. "So he wants you to disclose mission-related information as well? I think MAVERICK has a secrecy clause that prohibits that."

Peyton shrugged. "Even if they do it's a decision far above my head. If CRONUS has the power to get me here in the first place then they sure as hell got the resources to pluck me away and replace me with some other aspiring grunt."
She looked over her shoulder and onto the console next to her, pressing a button to activate the holographic targets shaped like armed figures.

As a green light and holographic timer appeared on the lane in front of her Peyton nodded towards Alice. "Earpro."

Alice nodded and put on a pair of olive drab ear defenders- similar to the ones worn by Peyton- as well as some transparent range glasses.
Peyton steadied herself and kept the rifle in a low-ready position with the muzzle aimed downwards.

Both her and Alice's eyes were glued to the timer and the second it reached its climax Peyton reacted; she shouldered her rifle, pressed down and pulled the trigger. Her stance was stable and was something akin to instinct at this point.
Alice grimaced as several shots rang out. She could feel the vibrations from the muzzle echo throughout her body while a pair of empty shell casings collided with her briefly before falling to the concrete floor.

Jennifer on the other hand was different. The recoil was masterfully controlled and her eyes never left the target. On the receiving end of it all were a cluster of holographic figures that looked like masked men wearing body armor while carrying assault rifles. Each target was in the process of moving tactically or taking aim at Peyton.
Each bullet fired by Peyton was registered by the firing range program which provided visual and auditory feedback in the form of yells and screams as the gunmen collapsed onto the ground.

While in the midst of this assault Peyton's rifle clicked, prompting her to let go of it as she reached for her sidearm. The fall of her rifle was stopped by the Y-strap sling just as Jennifer raised her pistol and continued to attack.

After a while there were no more targets and Peyton holstered her gun silently. She glanced over at Alice.
"That said, I sure as hell don't intend to get replaced that easy. I've worked far too hard to get here in the first place."

* * *
​
The sudden call for help came just as Peyton had finished another one of her daily jogs. She arrived quickly enough and as the Linkers gathered Jennifer crossed her arms and listened.
As the governor finished his plea Peyton cleared her throat and spoke up.

"I could be ready and on the field in twenty minutes, tops."

As she spoke she glanced at the others, though specifically at Streuben and Cammy.
 
Episode 3: The Briefing
After Peyton expressed her acceptance of the call-to-arms, the Mayor's eyes lit up; seemingly impressed by the sudden, thankless offer of assistance. She didn't even mention pay in the same breath. He wasn't one to directly interact with Linkers, but he always heard about the greed and apathy. Taken aback, it took him a moment to process the information in his old, cynical age before he could continue, showcasing the initial disbelief on his wrinkled face plainly. "Thank you, please, launch as soon as you can-", before he was interrupted by a loud "-Sir!". The red-haired woman at the back was the culprit, previously typing away at her laptop.

It was a ruggedized model, and by what she showed next it must've been linked to what was New-Maryland's military network. Spinning it around on the table, she let some information the laptop just received speak mostly for itself. "New situation. Look-", showcasing what appeared to be a simplified radar-based interpretation of New-Maryland's south-eastern coastline. To the left was the coast itself, a raggedy line coloured a light green, and a blue expanse which must've been the ocean; dotted about were a small handful of icons that indicated points of interest, or in one case what looked to be a coast-guard boat.

The boat was drifting about another dot, which the woman zoomed in on; presenting a rough outline of a debris field that was showed on the strategic map. All too suddenly, two new contacts were detected for a split second; before the icon maneuvered to investigate. The icon stopped moving in an instant, before being removed from the screen entirely; replaced by a stark 'X'.

The woman explained for those who might not've understood the context. "The Coast Guard just reported that one of their boats was apparently sunk. Completely destroyed in the water, entire crew lost. Radar is spotty due to the weather but they've been getting intermittent returns, and they're fairly large when they show up.", she extrapolated. The assistant let the room ruminate on that before she finished what she was saying. "I doubt this is a coincidence."

Lennard looked on, mildly impressed. A slight, smug kind of frown was on his face, apparently looking on what to say. He obviously decided to double-down on being the resident who always bothered exactly by the book. "Well, want to iron out another contract?", snidely smirking at his own attempt at something between defiance and humor. Sarah obviously wasn't amused at this, looking the other way from her more difficult co-worker, before the sound of a door slamming could be heard, followed by heavy foot-steps. By sound, it wasn't too difficult to figure out who it was by the fact it wasn't a perfect rhythm, suggesting a slight limp, and each beat sounding heavy.

It was Oswald, coming down from the second floor of the building. The large man yelled out, letting everyone hear his news. "Ain't ne'ssary!", he started out with, replying to Malthus as he was halfway down the stairs. "Just got done jawin' with the Regional D'rector. We've been giv'n right to do any emergency action we care to do with this sitch as we see fit, so that's what we're doin'.", letting himself take the time to finish stepping down to the ground floor. He walked on over to the 'tactical blackboard', and turned back to the room. "If there's no objections, I'll be taking temporary command'o this sitch and proclaimin' myself provisional mission-d'rector for this ins'dent, so listen up, now!"

It wasn't exactly difficult to see that the Governor was happy that something resembling a standard chain of command was forming, especially with the fact emergency measures were apparently authorized by MAVERICK, whatever that meant in their context. Oswald, apparently, was having a little bit of fun on the side, acting as the boss. But he managed to take his job seriously anyway.

"Every Linker is free t'go home if they ain't interested, if they're a'ight with heading into a hail of lead too now.", he started with; an obligatory reminder that Linkers were technically contractors free to do what they want, within MAVERICK's laws. Still, he hung on that a bit short; moving on from it quickly. His own sense of morality at play. "Aw'right, let's get started then. Presumin' I know people like I think I do, the Ess-Oh-Zee are trying out some kind'a con heah, so we can't be sure what we should really be lookin' at. So, I'll be divvyin' up ya'll into three teams to deal with things as they come. We've got three extra Handlers so that should work out good."

He looked over the assembled Linkers, and picked out heads and called out names to his fancy. "First thing we know of is the hostages. That's got a good chance of turnin' to a right clusterfuck, so...", he pointed out three heads: Streuben, which wasn't exactly difficult, Davion, which was the exact opposite, and Fosse; somewhere in the middle. "You's three got the heaviest mech's that can fight up close real good, so you's assigned to handling anywhat's in the Superfreight when you get there. Richard just came in and we'll assign him to that OP as soon as you're in the cockpit."

He then picked out Scott, and Peyton, then he pointed out Azata and Niko, letting them know how it's all gonna go down. "Awright, Miss Scott, Miss Peyton. You two are second-liners, so team 'B'. Ericsen's your Handler. Miss Azata, Mister Lancelot, you're both fast as bats out of hell, so you're team 'C'. Halliwell'll operate f'you. Both you teams ain't got a discrete operation to go on quite yet, but I'm sure those radar contacts are lookin' for some kind of trouble. You'll respond as necessary when they stir up their shit." He motioned over for the door, letting the movement suggest they all get ready to kick some tires and light some fires as soon as he was done.

"We'll be hunkerin' down and figuring out what 'Operations' you folks are officially launchin' for back heah. In-hangar or In-flight briefings will be provided as ne'ssary. Gear up!"

After that, it was easy to head to the Hangars and figure out the details between the team-members when they got there. Standard protocol, they had twenty minutes to burn during launch preperations; enough time to talk betwixt themselves and consider the specifics of what was going on. It was obvious something funny was happening.
 
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Episode 3: Briefing
Hazel felt rudely awakened by the alarm of her MAVERICK device in the early hours of the morning, muttering something along the lines of a '9-5' requirement as she rose from her slumber. Picking up her phone, still in bed, she checked the notification on the device letting out an audible sigh. She couldn't complain though, it was a 24/7 job that she signed up for. If MAVERICK want's you in at stupid o'clock, you got to get there by stupid o'clock. Pushing away the covers and sitting upright on the edge of the bed, Hazel rubbed whatever sleep out of her eyes, got up with a stretch and started to get ready for whatever was going to be thrown at her as soon as she stepped into MAVERICK quarters.

The getting ready part was uneventful, though wolfing down cereal and coffee just after showering would probably unsettle her stomach later on down the line. Dressed in her usual causal attire, Hazel was about to head out before, noticing the drizzle outside. Would it turn into a full downpour? Better safe than sorry Hazel thought as she snagged her coat of it's hangar, putting it on and after checking, double checking that she had everything, finally setting off towards the base.

Arriving at the base, Hazel encountered a few of her fellow Linkers who had already got there before her, moving into the larger more spacious briefing room that she was now familiar with. A man stood talking to her handler, Sarah and another, Malthus. His arms failing with his worried voice to match, the Mayor himself was here. Presumably something had gone terribly wrong. His attention quickly diverted from the two handlers as Hazel and the others had just walked into room. The mayor became ecstatic as he saw the group of Linkers walk in and quickly filled the them on what had happened before Malthus nearly cut the poor man down in his usual straight to the point way of talking with Sarah being more comforting with her words.

Giving a few moments of breathing room between the squabbling trio, the full extent of the problem was revealed Kids of Zebra? Doesn't he mean- Hazel stopped her train prematurely, listening to the mayor ramble more. His actions and movements clearly showed someone wanting help whatever the cost and who could blame him. Though MAVERICK probably never did pro-bono work and this would probably cost the old man dearly.

Peyton had decided to spearhead the work, offering her assistance without a moments hesitation with the Mayor thanking her assistance. She'd make a good team leader Hazel thought. The hostage situation seemed not so bad, until it got worse. A small group, presumably the Mayor's own team, had just alerted a new situation down at the coast. Hazel learned a bit closer, squinting her eyes at the radar and the small blips disappearing and reappearing on the black void of the screen. Well, this just got complicated. Malthus had decided to take another jab at the mayor just before another voice boomed into the room. The familiar sound of footsteps and voice meant it was none other than Oswald.

Hazel turned her head as she watched Oswald make his way over to them, explaining his little chat to the director as he did in a gleeful tone. Coming in view of the entire group now, he had now assumed command of the incident, which was a general relief it seemed to the Mayor. Hazel had a small feeling that the Mayor could be too easily impressed. Turning her attention back to Oswald once more, he went over what was already known and divided up the Linkers into three teams. She mentality sighed in relief as Streuben had been put with another group and was instead teamed up with Peyton. Hazel already had a 'feel' for the other two, Streuben and Adam. Hopefully it wouldn't end up with another angry talk after the mission.

Giving Oswald a nod and a confident 'Aye Aye', she rubbed her eyes once more, looking over towards her new teammate and started to walk towards the hanger. During the time between the briefing room, getting ready and arriving at the destination, a lot could happen. She just hoped it'd be a quick breeze.
 
Episode 3
Hadrian Fosse​
​


Hadrian had never had a proper sleep schedule ever since he left the army. There was less structure in his day as a contractor, rather than an active employee. Sometimes he woke up at just the right time. Before the call to action, Hadrian had been at base, sharpening the axe. He haunted the shooting range like the ghost of a vindictive, stubborn landlord. Nary a sound could be heard around the place, save for raindrops and gunshots. It was almost rhythmic. The sounds came out with thorough discipline, as if the rounds patiently awaited their turn before being fired and hitting the target. Hadrian's right hand clamped tightly around the handguard, refusing to let the recoil misalign the ironsights. He was firing the gun as it was, an older, pre-war, model based on the AR-15 platform, stamped and approved by Denver-Vegas and distributed indiscriminately throughout the continent. One of the easiest guns to get a hold of. Beside him lay more of the same, outfitted with various attachments and customizations. Hadrian's experience with raiders and troublemakers allowed him to build great insight into how they outfit their footsoldiers. He knew the configurations based on budget and intimidation factor. Some guns he hated, some he liked using.

The magazine was now empty. Hadrian was racking up quite the score. He quickly released the empty magazine and grabbed another off his chest carrier. It was like clockwork, the second magazine entered the magwell before the first even hit the table in front of him. The bolt release clicked before he could even blink and by the time his eye was open, he was firing again. His scoreboard didn't wait long before the numbers went up again. It didn't mean much to him, other that he knew his shots landed, but he tried not to pay attention. In the field, there are no hitmarkers. He didn't empty the mag this time and went for a tactical reload. When the shots stopped, he grabbed a new magazine off his carrier before releasing the other. He grabbed the mag inside the rifle and released it, quickly inserting the full mag and replacing in the empty pouch on his vest. The clock kept ticking, unphased.

He went through the rifles, resetting the score on each one and firing three full magazines. By the end of it, the scores were the same, give or take a few hundred points.


His celebratory brooding was cut short by a call to action. Right on time. He removed his ear protection and protective eyewear and reapplied the eye-patch. Hadrian didn't even need to change for the briefing, being in his combat gear already. When he presented at mission briefing, he stood out, looking straight off the GI line-up, like this was somehow still the army bases he was used to. Sometimes he took the phrase 'dress for the job you want" a bit too literally. Richard used to joke around, saying that whenever he showed up anywhere in his operator gear and eye-patch he looked like a pre-war movie villain. "The evil plans in order, commander?" But preparedness was no funny matter.

Inside the briefing room, he took a spot where he had a wide perspective on the matters. He was on-base at the time when the alarm went off so he was first served, but didn't wait long until people started appearing. He leaned back in his chair until Oswald came along and pointed to his head. Hostage situation, train wreck. Indeed a train wreck. Assigned to a team he only briefly met not too long ago: Streuben and Adam. He nodded and left when the briefing ended, leaving his team with a nod of acknowledgement and a face that read "be seeing you". He made a hurried pace, as Janus was a picky mech and didn't get along well with others, so he was put in the timeout corner inside the aircraft hangar. Ironic, considering Janus was a flightless bird. Hadrian strode inside the aircraft hangar, ready to head right into the danger zone. Janus greeted him, unmoving and ever silent. Hadrian almost asked him if he made any new friends, but decided not to.

Janus' cockpit opened at the request of his Linker, almost telepathically, had it not been a remote controlled function. It revealed a comfortable Linker seating, inside a strong "roll cage" made out of a strong metal alloy. At the base of the cockpit stood a secured duffel bag, olive drab. Hadrian inspected it, as he does every time before Linking. He checked everything off a mental list, ending with his handgun, which he grabbed for a closer inspection. He released the magazine and counted the bullets, pulled the slide back just enough to see that the gun was loaded. He put the safety on and placed the gun back in its carry box, then back into the duffel bag. Everything was in order and he was ready for deployment.

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CAMILLE "KAMIKAZE" AZATA
To some's surprise, she also responds to "meeeow"


The past week had been extremely busy for Cammy, on account of her fragging one of Raijin's engines on its first sortie. By day, Cammy was working shoulder-to-shoulder with her maintenance crew to get that mess sorted out. The damage to the NC was minimal, but it was clear they couldn't just remove the destroyed engine and slap a new one in its place --not unless they wanted the same thing to happen again.

To make matters worse, Halliwell sealed the deal with Valkyrian Starworks, which was good, but added an extra layer of complexity to everything. Val Star's people were communicating with MAVERICK's people to ease the transition and streamline the installation of the new engines, once those arrived. This meant they couldn't just throw Raijin back together and 'make it work.' The right answer today wasn't necessarily the right answer a week from now, so they had to perform the repairs in such a way that things could be taken back apart when the new engines show up. And this was all being done in a world where the next mission could come down at any time. Raijin needed to be battle-ready yesterday.

This made Cammy yearn for a simpler time. See a problem, solve a problem, until there are no problems. Then, make a new problem. She wanted to match wits with her machines, free of corporate fuckery or timetables or distractions. If the damn rain would let up for a day or two, she would've spent her evenings at home, working on her truck. But her garage was still too full of unpacked boxes and 'stuff,' so that was out of the question. She wasn't desperate enough to wrench in the rain. Not when she had another project right here on base, stored in a nice, dry hangar. And, unlike Raijin, this one was all hers, to do with as she pleased. She could turn the railgun into whatever the hell she wanted... as long as the final product isn't a war crime.

It's only a crime if you get caught.

So, her days were spent getting her NC back to form and aligned with Val Star's requests. And her evenings were spent in an unused corner of the hangar, where the shattered remains of the Sons of Zeus's railgun lay strapped to a flatbed. Some nights, when fits of inspiration took her, she didn't even leave the base. She just stayed there all night, cutting, grinding, welding, tearing off old bits and fashioning new ones, until she was found the next morning, curled up in a pile of tarps, like the cats she loved so much. And even when she did go home, she usually stayed up into the wee hours of the morning reading up on magnetic induction or browsing parts catalogs to see who has the best prices on magnets, capacitors, and bolts with higher shear ratings. Because things break. Everything breaks.

She wouldn't be satisfied with restoring the weapon to its former glory. That would be too easy, a trip down the beaten path. Ever-forwards. She wasn't going to take this railgun back to what it used to be. No, she needed to take it in an entirely different direction. Turn it up to eleven. A reinvention. A re-imagining of what it could be. Peyton seemed sure the Sons would show their face again. Good. She would have a surprise for them when they did.


Episode3: Rainy Days
"Fffffuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck," Cammy said, hissing the words between her teeth. She was quite literally wrapped in a tangle of wires, up to her ankles in heavy electrical cables and mil-spec connectors. Somewhere deep beneath this yarn ball of industrial spaghetti, her MAVERICK communicator was squealing an alert loudly enough to nearly make her ears bleed.

She wasn't quite sure when she'd 'lost' her communicator. She could have sworn it was still in her pocket... her hoodie pocket... which she wasn't wearing anymore. Well, shit, when did that happen? She vaguely recalled using it to send questions and pictures to Fitz an hour ago. Two hours ago? Three? Time tended to slip away when she hit her stride. This goddamn railgun was going to drive her mad. Like, 'mad scientist' mad. Not 'I lick telephone poles because they taste purple,' mad.

She blindly groped around in the mess of wires until she felt something flat and rectangular and not connected to the other stuff and pulled it free. Lying back on the cold steel deck of the flatbed trailer, she shut off the alert and thumbed through the rather limited details which were provided. Hostage situation... again. She frowned at the screen. Someone really fucking hates this city. Is this what working for MAVERICK was like? NCs are the pinnacle of military engineering, so it seemed natural that anyone who opposed them would use every dirty trick to level the playing field. Guerilla tactics. Hostages. Espionage and betrayal. They'd do anything to keep the full force of the wrath of god from falling down upon them.

But why oppose 'god' at all? Why throw pebbles at the throne? Surely, these bandits could find easier prey, smaller fish to hook?

The answer was obvious. It's not about the money. It's not about 'winning.' They're trying to make a point. Maybe inciting fear and terror is the point.

Well, I've got your counterpoint right here, assholes.

Cammy hopped down from the flatbed, pausing momentarily to wonder what had become of her hoodie, before deciding it didn't really matter right now. On account of the constant rain all week, she had adopted a habit of wearing very little. Most days, she just had on a sports bra, some shorts, and combat boots, and maybe a jacket or her hoodie if it got chilly. She'd probably wear less than that, if they'd let her. In her opinion, this was preferable to wearing rain slickers or heavy coats, or dealing with wet clothing. Long days on base, coupled with her inability to sit still for long meant she often headed outside to walk around or to drop in on other parts of the base. Rain did not deter her from this. If anything, she preferred the rain. Didn't get much of that back home.

She was among the first to arrive at the briefing room. It was just her and Grandpa Pirate for a minute or two, but the rest of the usual suspects trickled in rather shortly after. She probably should've swung by the hangar to grab a coat or her flight suit or something, but there would be plenty of time for that before takeoff... if there would even be a takeoff. Sarah and Skeletor were still hashing out the details with the Mayor. Cammy simply stood off to one side, in her own little corner, leaning casually on the wall with her eyes glazed over. She had the look of someone who'd rather be doing anything but this, her bare arms folded, and her sleeves of random tattoos on display, like a silent middle finger to the 'professionals' in the room.

Her first actual reaction was a sharp glance in Peyton's direction when the woman said she could be on the field in twenty minutes. Jesus, Pey, at least let him stew for a sec. The Mayor was in such a panic, she could practically see the $$$ oozing out of his pores. Cammy wasn't heartless, but she sure as hell wasn't gonna kick tires and light fires 'til she was sure they were getting paid for it.

Fortunately, the handlers sorted out the financials in short order and Oswald took command, dividing the Linkers into three teams. Suddenly, Cammy found her self paired up with Niko, with Halliwell as their operator. Hahaha. If there were a vote for 'least likely to be a Linker,' Cammy was quite sure she or Nico would win it by a landslide, probably in a tie. She barely knew him, but he seemed a little too 'soft' for this line of work. Nice guy, though. Whatever, she knew the kid could pilot -- he wouldn't be here if he couldn't. The rest would sort itself out on the battlefield. If nothing else, this would be an interesting ride.

Not to mention, she had always wondered who was faster...

If she seemed indifferent at first, or maybe even a little bored, she definitely wasn't now. Cammy had a big, stupid grin on her face as she walked over to Nico and fist bumped him, so they could head to the hangar together. "Sup, Flyboi. You ready?"
 
As Oswald took charge of the operation Peyton pursed her mouth and nodded. Desperate client or not the Linkers still needed a proper chain of command to function properly. She shifted her weight as the grizzled old man began to divide the pilots into teams. Hopefully- hopefully- the local government could spare some minor paramilitary forces for support because a first line of defense consisting of NCs followed by a second and last line of police officers just wasn't going to cut it.
Jennifer nodded towards Oswald once his orders had concluded before looking at all the other pilots. "Good luck out there," she said aloud. Her eyes stopped briefly on Cammy before refocusing.

Following Hazel into the hangar Peyton was tapping away on her personal data tablet in an effort to make sure that both her NC and handler were equally ready for what's about to come. She looked at Hazel with a determined look. "You can call me by my last name or my NC's name. What should I call you?"

While waiting for an answer the pair neared the hangar area. During the days that had passed Jennifer's NC was more or less back in business. She had also taken the time to name it properly;

Mirage.

SkyHawk MK IV SkyHawk MK IV
 
The early morning wake-up call had been met with an annoyed groan from Adam. Today was supposed to be the day he could take the Vanguard to a training field for some much needed movement practice, but the timing of this call made him suspect that it wasn't going to happen. Checking the message he was proven right, and thus Adam groggily began to get around.

Upon reaching the room being used for the meeting he gave Sarah a nod and smile before parking himself along one of the walls, everyone else just got a tired glance before he turned his attention to what was going on. As he listened to what the situation was, a frown grew on his face. The taking of hostages bothered him, which made his assignment to rescue them rather pleasing. Plus being in tunnels made mobility less important than armor and firepower, which would hopefully make things easier for him. That said, while he more or less had some idea of what to expect from Emperor's pilot, he didn't know anything about the other Linker on the team other than he apparently lived in the same neighborhood. And unfortunately there was no time to find out as they needed to get going ASAP.

Due to his limitations Adam was one of the last ones to get to his NC, much less board it. Luckily the mechanics had already started the process of getting the machine ready to deploy due to the originally scheduled training exercise, which saved precious seconds off from getting it ready for combat. While that exercise was going to be canceled, Adam had been putting himself through simulated hell ever since the party and he hoped it would be enough. After all, it was sounding like this mission could easily turn into a shit show on its own, no need for him to make it worse by tripping and landing on his face during battle.

Once the Vanguard's command chair had lowered itself into the cockpit and Adam was able to finish strapping himself into place, including ones to hold his legs in place, he initiated the start-up process. As the reactor thrummed to life he set to work plugging himself into the NC's systems. As soon as it was possible he opened a communications channel to his two teammates. "Vanguard here. Quick reminder that I've got a jamming field that can help against enemy targeting, but that the power drain causes a big drop in my mobility so it will be turned off whenever we need to move quickly."
 
Episode 3: Pre-missionFREDRICH-ALEXANDER VON STREUBEN
To some's surprise, he also responds to "Tower-Upright."

He snapped his finger, a light, barely audible click reverberating against the walls. Perfectly timed, he thought, as his eyes rose to scan the disheveled Mayor. A nudge, delivered by a surprisingly humane Peyton, was all that was needed for the Mayor to froth his own mouth at the chance of out-sourcing his own problems onto others for cheap. No doubt he viewed MAVERICK with some form of scorn, he had a seat of power after all. The kind of people MAVERICK ridiculed on the daily, because they never learn to put the credits where credits ought to go. Instead of learning to deal with the rampant militia and terrorist activities in his own region, he spends fortunes on getting some 'specialist' laborours from Atlantis, and now he's out of his mind as for how the Sons of Zeus could've entered his compromised kingdom. Better yet, his own thoughts seemed all but confirmed as yet more activity made itself known. The sheer irony making him think back to his own home, a thought better left ignored.

Thankfully, in midst of yet another soon-to-be contract battle, initiated by master debater Malthus' ever-increasing snarkiness, Oswald took the rein of the herd. His heavy steps, albeit non-rhythmic, demanded their own space in the conversation. His shouting no doubt helped cement the fact, as the rest of the Handlers made way, allowing the retired Boxer to once again take to the ring, although a different one.

Streuben had no qualms, more than willing to listen to Oswald's longer-than-necessary brief. They seemed to be of the same mind, Oswald seemingly more than capable of making the logical decision: he wouldn't have done it any different himself. For all its oddities, MAVERICK had a nack for recruiting competents, after all. Though, frankly, he was more surprised Malthus had given way so easily. Could either mean that Oswald's a capable Handler, or that Malthus was scared of the limping mountain. Once again, he didn't mind either. With a quick nod towards Oswald, he left the briefing room before the session had even ended; he wouldn't be able to walk at his own pace otherwise.

Taking your time, keeping your cool; both immeasurably important qualities for any kind of fighting. So long as he could take his time walking through the complex's now bustling corridors, lifts, tunnels, and obligatory decontamination zones with a steady but casual pace, he could at least guarantee that he could uplift the requirements of calm and cool before the he could glisten a look at his machine. Though aware as he was, he couldn't promise anything once he took his own reins anymore. Though ultimately pointless, by the time the briefing was over, he had already stashed away his clothes and put own the mandatory pilot suit, now on the final stretch to the subterranean hangar.

The thought of bringing something with him had crossed his mind whilst he changed into his suit. Though, whether it be pride or something else, he measured that it was unnecessary. If the Emperor could only reach so far as this, then it didn't deserve to walk, and he didn't deserve to control. His consciousness reasoned differently from his more primal nature of course. Whilst his subconscious grew more and more energetic as the Emperor was coming closer and closer, he convinced himself that should the worst come to pass, he could just pull something off of the enemy. The demanding nature of such a pursuit more than ignored by him as he thought about the mission.

Finally having entered the Hangar, he couldn't have timed it any better. From his rear-ward seat along the corner of the Operation Office, right next to whatever secretary lady the red-head besides him was, to entry-point for the hangar, he had arrived just as the others trickled in and scared their crew into action with their alarmed pace. A quality Streuben lacked, as he locked eyes with Johnson yet again, the man giving naught but a thumb in the upwards-trajectory as the tall man crossed past him.

The gantry was more than in place, for some reason it had even been polished. Streuben would have been surprised were he not already engrossed in staring upon the tallest Machine in the hangar, his own, or rather, its own self. The reactor had been remotely spooled pre-pre-flight, leaving an impression of Johnson being a bit of a psychic. Though, as Streuben walked up the gantry, he reasoned that the man had experienced his fair few emergency scrablings.

As he took the last step, and emerged himself within the Emperor's capsule, the hatch closed, and the sound of the chest reverting back into shape echoed and shook throughout the entire interior; the armor bolted itself into rigidity, and the artificial muscles tightened themselves around the capsule once again. Only when the process had finished, taking the better half of the entire pre-flight allotment period, did the shock-absorbant flow into the capsule, plunging the Linker into the deep.

He jolted as his last vestage of bodily control flickered into the machine as the NC's neural spike penetrated into his cybnernetics, the minds of his own and the Emperor's merging into one as he felt every neuron flow discretely through the machine's own neurology, its every reaction producing and adequate response from the machine's muscle fibers as the standard movement checks were ran. To his own surprise, there had been fewer delays within the inputs and outputs compared to yesterday. Maybe he simply performed better during mission, he thought. Those were his last thoughts as himself before the mission.

His body went limp once again, suspended within the sensory deprevation tank which was the Emperor. As he closed his eyes, the red glow of the Emperor took prominence, its vision now his own; its mind his own. One and the same, interchangable, as the Emperor extended its hand towards the now-elevated weapons rack, planting a firm clasp around the two rifles he'd used to effect during their first sortie.

"The enemy occupies the Superfreightway," the NC's machine-mind synthesized across the now-open mission coms. "Both we and them need only shoot in one direction." It was an eerie voice, lacking the already small aspect of human emotion native to any human voice. Though unlike during the heat of the first mission, it didn't seem quite so mechanic yet. The ride uplift the subterranean hangar lift wasn't quite in the same category.

"Have the government deployed," the NC continued openly, clearly directed towards the Command Office, nigh-accusatory in nature. Clearly his animosity towards New-Maryland's handling managing to sneak out through the net of his conscious mind. Though the Emperor didn't seem to care, instead bolting the assault-rifle against its leg with its iconic thunderous magnetic clamp. Luckily ear-protection was mandatory issue during sorties.

As the Emperor slowly raised itself from within the hangar, through the NC-dedicated lift system, the Emperor moved outward towards the transport hangar where the wildcard was being kept. Emperor continued, over the mission-coms, "Meet-up on Janus' position," the machine speaking in its traditionally so-close-yet-so-far manner, now carefully moving towards the Janus, making sure to avoid crushing the MAVERICK employees crazedly hustling about still.

YsFanatic YsFanatic , Aldur Aldur
 
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Episode 3: Pre-Mission
The three Linkers assigned to the 'A-Team', and their relevant Neural Combatants were walking to their rightful place at the start of the base's runway; flanked by the beginnings of a coast on one end, and the base's above-ground hangars to another. Walking carefully on pre-assigned 'ground-paths', the NC's marched, like golems dutifully following orders until they reached their assigned points. The primary Handler team back at base began final preparations before a launch, tuning their combined communications and linking together IFF systems, among some other things.

The simple stillness of the NC's interiors was constantly contrasted against by the chaos of the actual conditions on the ground, small transports fetching NC-use munitions for use by other team-members as their NC's were still being prepared, alongside a few dozen personnel running, jogging, and sprinting across the concrete for any reason imaginable. The three members of the provisional 'Team-A' were standing proud at the center of it all.

The Emperor, as it usually was, was the pinpoint at the center; a shining beacon that seemed to radiate a demand for attention and submission; perhaps slightly addled by the continuing inclusions of further and further gaudy addons that suggested arrogance more than anything else. It, itself, was contrasted by its fellows; more simply designed, but in other ways just as impressive machines at each flank. The Janus, a similarly proud vessel that was the opposite of the Emperor in many aspects, a stoutly-designed weapon of war that nonetheless demanded respect as it maneuvered itself akin to a respected officer. Rounding out the trio was the Vanguard, another heavy specimen that walked awkwardly, but still stood proud with its fellows; perchance appreciating the fact it was the least showy of the trio.

To those of certain temperaments, it might've resembled a chain of command.

Their ears were suddenly filled with a voice distinctly familiar to two of them; Sarah Nielsen, who was apparently putting her knowledge of communication systems to good use, clicking away in the background to the tune that the Linkers would equate with the fiddling of some support systems of theirs. "Everything looks fine here-", she started. "-Richard should be with you all shortly, with the briefing. Please be safe out there.", before she thought of something to leave with. "The situation you're all getting into... sounds hard. Just do what you can do, okay?"
 
Episode 2.5The party from the other day had gone relatively well, all things considered. Some left earlier than others, but he wasn’t going to judge them for it. That’d just be silly. ‘Ah well, maybe next time people will stay longer.’ He thought.

The rainy weather for the current week hadn’t changed his daily routine in the slightest, he wasn’t taught to care about it in the first place. Just required a weather resistant set of clothes, nothing special. Even then, sometimes he felt he didn’t need one in the lighter rains. His hometown was arguably worse in every way, by most standards… That was probably why nobody lived there. Not nobody as in home to 100, nobody as in home to maybe 5. On the bright side, he had the largest collection of Nokias, Gameboys, and pet ‘Meido Roaches’ in the area… But not anymore. He forgot to pack those with him, for better or worse.
Episode 3
The Following Day​

At roughly 2AM, the alarm blared on his communicator. Startled, Niko horizontally leaped out of bed, accidentally bonking his head on the wall. “Ach!” Niko hadn’t expected the alarm to be so loud, and his completely wild sleeping positions did not help him. Taking a minute to get up, Niko checked to see what all the noise was about.

“...Oh.”

Outside after a few minutes of prepping, Niko made his way towards the briefing room. Living on-base had its benefits, like being only a short walk away from anything important. On his way there however… He nearly stepped on a caterpillar. It was so rare for one to be outside in the early morning hours… Mostly due to how cold it was. Stopping in his tracks after he had stepped over it, he stopped in his tracks and looked back. It was still okay, though it had curled up on itself due to being lightly nudged.

“Oh no! You alright buddy?” Niko crouched nearby, waiting for the bug to resume its travels. It took a few minutes, before it decided to get moving again. At first, he let out a sigh of relief and was about to move on, but he realized it was still in the middle of a walkway. Scooping up the caterpillar, he walked over to a patch of grass near a small tree and placed it inside, before resuming his walk to the facility.

He showed up last, but still before 2:45. The briefing went about as expected, and he didn’t question his assignment. Though admittedly he would’ve rather helped with the hostages, his machine was not made to be a tunnel rat.

As he and Cammy made their way to the hangars, he returned the fist bump with a smile.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, at 3 in the morning at least.” He replied, laughing after that last bit.

“Y’know, I wonder if they’ll just give up if we remove their armaments?” It seems Niko already had something in mind in terms of dealing with any hostiles that might show up.

AnonyMouse AnonyMouse
 
Episode 3"Huh?" Cammy said, momentarily wondering if she'd heard him correctly. Surely, her ears deceived her.

"Nah... I don't think they will," she replied, with a calmness she didn't think she was capable of. "I, umm, I don't think the guys who took a trainload of innocent people are just gonna chill out if we take their guns. I mean, they wanted to rain chemical weapons last week. This week, it's a railway heist. What next, a puppy-kicking contest?"

Cammy could tell she was coming awfully close to giving him a piece of her mind, but she stopped far short of doing so. She didn't have to lecture him; he would see. When the shit hit the fan, he'd see what the Sons of Zeus were really about and the idea of peacefully disarming these scumbags wouldn't even cross his mind.

At least, that's what she hoped. More than anything, she hoped nobody had to die for him to see that.

But she barely knew this kid --this man-- so preaching at him five seconds after they were paired up definitely wouldn't get things off on the right foot. She wanted to say more, but now didn't seem like the time, nor did she know how to say it without getting worked up.

Halliwell will deal with it, she thought, feeling an unexpected swell of confidence in that thought. Probably not the first person she'd want leading a military op as that woman's tactical prowess seemed more suited to board rooms and dinner parties, but if there was a personnel issue, Cammy couldn't think of a better voice to have by her side.

They were nearly to the hangar now and Cammy stopped to turn to face him. "These guys aren't fuckin' around, Niko, and neither am I. They ain't kickin' no puppies on my watch," she said with a smile and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "And I don't even like dogs."

Tanya Degurechaff Tanya Degurechaff
 
Last edited:
Episode 3: Operation Grecian Hostage
Richard Knight​
​


The rain made for a sinister atmosphere. Raindrops? Teardrops? This day was gonna be full of those, Richard thought as he made the preparations for an intel dump. He cleared his throat and rubbed his chin, then went live.
“Greetings, Alpha One, this is Richard Knight. I’ll be your Handler for operation ‘Grecian Hostage’. Hope you’re having a wonderful morning. Your primary objective for this op is clear. This is a rescue mission. Hostages are to be recovered at all costs, but recovering the entire train, if possible, is preferred. Your secondary objectives are eliminating OPFOR and minimizing damage to the tunnel. Now you’ll get a whole lot of moola if you can recover both the train and the hostages safely."

His voice was raspy and a hint of frustration lingered shortly when he paused.

"As you may have been told, the enemy combatants call themselves the Sons of Zeus, whom you may recognize from previous engagements. As for backup, you’re it. Be advised, enemy combatants are in possession of a small but unknown number of Ersatz-Neural Combatants. Make and Model are Shihei Metallurgy ‘TYPE-INACHI’. Intel says they’re likely prepared to take you head on with stake-drivers, autocannons and shotguns. They have infantry on-site, divided into basic infantry and power-armored troops, apparently acting as demolitionists for the train. Fosse, you owe me $20."

Richard was clearly trying to bring himself up and lighten the mood. He ran the risk of offending the sensibilities of some, but who willingly becomes a killing machine and doesn't at least have a basic sense of humor? Still, Linkers weren't your usual G.I.s except for Sgt. Cyclops who wasn't particularly keen on reciprocating humor in mission debrief.Still, Richard at least entertained himself, and he could swear he heard Hadrian puff air out of his nose.

"Now... you’ll be under the command of Chief Stephan Petrov of the Military Police, who’s so far ordered you to not engage, unless shots are fired. I repeat, NOT clear to engage until SHOTS FIRED. Then the engagement becomes kinetic. You're gonna be linked to the MP's comms as well."

Richard dreaded the idea that all the support they got for this operation were the MP. Considering the delicacy of the situation, you'd think that they might have been able to squeeze out at least one team of special units or maybe the god damn spec ops. The city was either becoming over reliant on MAVERICK or was plain lazy and none of those options put Richard's mind at ease, but what they got is what they got. They have to make the best out of the worst situation.

"The train is a Denver-Vegas passenger model, DVI-1000L-1000. They sure like their thousands. This train is completely electric. SuperFreightway basic systems are go, but have been damaged. Expect lights to go out and electrical discharges. Try not to get zapped. Each wagon has its own independent linear induction motor. Double-deckers. The train is 15 modules long so don't get lost. Now for the mouthful..."

Richard paused and took a healthy gulp of water.

"'Grecian Hostage' is the name. Underground fighting is the game. The space is cramped and the only place you can fit all of the suits comfortably is the main area. Every branching tunnel won’t let you through unless you line-up nicely. There are five-rails that split up into a ‘slanted-X’ shape, with three rails continuing down the middle and two rails splitting offs. There are four mouths to the primary sections. The side-rails curve out and the one to the right quickly goes back to the surface so, like I said, don’t get lost. The line is electrified, but the relevant sections have been shut off. Still, it has taken damage and may discharge. That's bad news for your NCs so make sure to stay away and stay dry."

He inspected the SuperFreightway plans once again and double-checked the points of access in the tunnels.

"Be advised, the maintenance tunnels and sideways of the SuperFreightway are likely crawling with OPFOR. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears to the ground in case of movement. OPFOR are prone to poke at your suits until they strike holes so pick your fights wisely. There’s fog outside the tunnel and it’s thick as oatmeal, been raining all week. Tunnel’s got climate control, if you’re worrying about catching a cold, but I'd worry more about the lack of visibility."

Richard took another sip and continued.

"Operation summary: Primary objective, hostage rescue. Secondary objectives, take out OPFOR and minimize damage to the tunnel. Big bonus if you can secure both the hostage and the train. OPFOR should not be underestimated. The environment you will be fighting in has low visibility and houses potentially hazardous elements. You are not to engage until shots are fired. You will be hearing from the Chief of the Military Police as well. "

Richard finished with a deep breath but before he could exhale he realized he had forgotten something.

"Emperor, I don't need to tell you this, but use of the Particle Cannon in the tunnel classifies as a war crime and will be punished severely. This has been Richard Knight. Operation 'Grecian Hostage' is a go. Give 'em hell. Over.”


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