Futuristic Spectre

[Vudukudu]

Post Shift Earth:

The following is a list of the lands lost to the Shift.

Midwestern America

The Caribbean

Middle Canada

Colombia, Venezuela, and the Amazon Basin

Tunisia, Algeria, and Niger

The Pacific Islands

Southern India

The Middle East

The United Kingdom

Western France

Eastern Spain

Chinese Seaboard

Eastern Russia

Korea

Japan




Setting:
​

The date is July 3rd, 2132. Today marks the 52nd anniversary of the Shift. Centuries of global warming had raised the atmospheric temperature a few degrees. The results were cataclysmic.


The polar ice caps melted, releasing a flood of near-biblical proportions. The amount of inhabitable land saw a stark decline, upsetting our national boundaries and displacing billions of people. Everything changed as the water rushed in.


With the number of refugees in the billions, things had to change. Thankfully enough, it was not society that changed, but the government that managed it. What is left of the Americas bound together with the remainder of Western Europe and Australia, forming the Terran Republic. Similarly, the survivors of Eurasia and Africa joined together, forming the Eurasian Confederacy.


One hundred years ago, the name of the game had been oil. We fought over energy, not living space. The new reasons for violence were arable land, fresh water, and rare metals. It was not long before the resource stress of the Shift led to violent conflict between the Confederacy and Republic.


Just as the reasons of war have changed, so has the manner of war. In the race for the ultimate advantage over the enemy, both sides delved into formerly prohibited research. The Republic looked within, and the Confederacy looked without. For the Republic, genetically modified warriors were the next generation of soldier. For the Confederacy, cybernetic enhancement was the new dawn.


The war has been on and off for almost two decades now. During a brief cease fire, the Republic finally perfected it's art of war. The first generation of Spectres was born, and they were trained in secret. The two powers maintained a tense peace, rapidly militarizing their new, temporary borders. Eight years after the first successful birth of the Spectres, the Republic once again prepares for war.

Birth
​

Beep. Beep. Beep. "Specimen Developmental Stage One complete."


The voice is feminine and monotone, and it is the only voice you have ever heard. Mother, perhaps?


Creaaakk. FWOOSH. Thud.


The bottom of the canister, your home, opened up. A few large holes drained the fluid you have floated in for almost three weeks now. You fall to the ground with a wet thud, no sensation entering through your pale skin, no air passing through your blue lips. In the foggy glass of the canister, you see a pale, wet corpse. Is it another canister, or a reflection?


Click. Click. Click. Gasp.


The respirator clicks loudly three times. Your airflow stops, leaving you gasping and sputtering like a fish out of water. Your lungs rebel, burning and aching as they are denied oxygen. The respirator retracts like a snake, coiling up against the ceiling of your canister. You continue to choke on the nothingness for what feels like days before a sudden rush of air floods the tank. You feel your lungs inflate once more, and the haze in your vision retreats.


Thwipthwipthwipthwipthwipthwipthwip.


The wheels roll quietly over the linoleum floor. You're being moved on a cart of some sort. You're not sure how or when you were taken from your canister, but you're powerless to move your limbs, and home feels so, so far away. A noiseless scream escapes your lips, a desperate call for safety.


"Specimen entering Developmental Stage Two."


Mother? Mother! Help me, Mother!


"Begin System Flood Procedure."


Mother? Mother! Help!


"Current fatality rate to date: 100%."


MOTHER!


"Initiate."


You see clear tubes, jutting out in all directions. At the corners of your vision, you see colors begin to appear. They leak inwards, following the paths of the tubes. Some are red, others blue, some clear, a few grey, and one black. They creep inwards, getting closer and closer to you until they bend out of your view. Moments after you can no longer see their progression, an overwhelming, excruciating pain overwhelms you.


"System Flood Initiated. Monitoring Vitals."


Your lips curl. Your throat spasms and twists, as if attempting to constrict itself. One word escapes your lips before everything turns black.


"MOTHER!"


Your limbs respond in a storm of spastic activity. Your formerly limp legs and arms burst with life, kicking and swinging to and fro. You cannot see, but you can feel the pain, as if your very being was stiff wood, fighting against the very notion of movement.


"System Flood Complete. Specimen Status: Alive."


You hear cheering and applause. You breathe heavily, gasping for air as the pain exits your system, just as quickly as it had appeared. The lights in the room go out, leaving you alone in the blackness. You wait, frozen still.


Thwipthwipthwipthwipthwipthwip.


It's the wheels again. You're being moved, and you're limbs will not respond to you, although you can feel them. Bound to the cart, perhaps?


You breathe in, and whisper. "Mother?"


A voice responds, gruff and grainy. "Yes."


The voice is not Mother. This upsets you, tears welling up in your eyes. You wail and struggle, but to no avail. The cart rolls on.

Five Years

​

You are, biologically speaking, twenty years old. Temporally speaking, you are, as of today, five years old. For five years, you have been taught. Taught to walk, taught to speak, taught to run, jump, duck, carry, push, pull, crawl, type, write, read, aim, squeeze, reload, shift, throw, detonate, kill.


They tell you that you are perfect. That you are the best, in every single way. That you should consider yourself lucky, because you are so much better than all the others. You're unsure of who the others are.





Finally, they explain to you. You aren't normal. Other people were born differently. They did not have the same strengths you had, the same gifts. They took twenty years to develop into the form you had at birth. They were not born with ideas implanted in their brains, ideas that made them develop slowly. You were better than them, smarter, faster, stronger, more durable, more perceptive.

Seven Years

​

At the date marking your seventh year of life, they finally explained to you your purpose. You were to be a Spectre. From your education, you knew that meant a ghost, and you responded with some hesitation. They quickly assuaged your fears, saying it was a metaphor, and not meant literally.





You would be the new breed of fighter for the Republic. Stronger, faster, smarter, and better than any trooper the Confederacy could possibly muster. You were to fight and die for your creators, spill and lose blood for the people you were born to protect. They ushered you into a room you hadn't seen before, labeled "Spectre Barracks".


It was here that you discovered you were not alone, and joined others like you. Others who were special and strong, just as you were.

Eight Years

​

Operation Torch Bearer begins.

 

[Vudukudu]

It was no secret within the Republic army that the war would be starting up again. While most of the rank-and-file knew nothing of the Spectre project, the commanders were well aware of the distinct advantage they now had. On all battlefronts, the Republic was gathering forces, and the Confederacy was growing uneasy. They marshaled their own troops, preparing defenses around highly valued areas.


The date was July 3rd, 2132. It marks the first Spectre deployment, and the day we as a species once again dove head first into the flames. The orders came down from the top, a sealed file stamped with the mark of Republic High Command.


The announcement reached the Spectres by way of the barracks announcement system. The voice had been with them for eight years now, in their birth, in their training, and as their personal aide. Dearest mother still watched over her children.


"Spectres, prepare for mission briefing. General Beauchene will be meeting you personally, so make yourselves presentable."


A-902 was in the middle of taking apart and reconstructing his assault rifle on the barracks floor. His eyes flitted to the speaker as the announcement was made, then back down to the partially constructed firearm before him. With an annoyed grunt, he quickly finished reassembly and stored the weapon in the arms locker, located in the corner of the shared dormitory space.


"You all heard her. Suit up, nice and fancy for the General. Today's the day, everybody." He called out, his voice carrying throughout the room. For the Spectres, there was little dressing up to do. Their standard uniform was a simple black pant and shirt, and they needed little else. After all, they were hardly human, and dress uniforms would be considered a waste on them. Whereas typical uniforms had a marking of rank on the left breast, the Spectres had a grinning silver skull. Beyond that, no decoration was included, or permitted at all.


"Wake up!" He bellowed, just in case any of the others were still asleep and hadn't heard. It was, after all, only 03:45, and he was considered an early riser among them.

 

[Calamari]

Q-515 rose from her bunk and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. A small, calm smile came to her face as the blonde dressed in her usual relaxed manner, only pausing once she noticed the time. "Early morning training?" She questioned, with an edge of excitement in her voice. "Or... does Mother want us to visit the lab men..?"

 

[Soviet Panda]

B-9245 woke with a start. He hadn't been having a bad dream, he usually didn't remember the one's he did have. But that was simply how he was. "What are we doing? Are we going somewhere? Is it important? Why can't they ever come to us?" he asked in rapid fire, barly pausing for breath.

 

[Th3Tru3Cr33p3r]

J-177 was out on an early morning run when the voice came across the speakers that covered the entire top secret compound where the specters had been created and now trained daily. It was the female voice he knew only as mother. He changed his path towards the barracks when she said there was an imminent mission briefing with the General. A grin broke out across his face, fairly uncharacteristic for the specters, but the time for a real mission would soon be upon them and he was eager to apply his training.

 

[Lumeneire]

D-983 dinged her head on the underside of the Herakles Troop Carrier she was tinkering with. As mothers voice crackled to life through the announcement speakers, she crawled out from the mechanical underbelly and tossed the wrench in her hand to the side. It bounced off of the concrete floor and the forceful ting it produced echoed throughout the garage. She cringed at the sound and nervously cast her glance to either side to see if anyone would catch her in the act. On more than one occasion, when her mind had been restless, she had been caught changing and upgrading the vehicular equipment when she should have been sleeping and resting her mind. Her brain however, always felt like it was being charged by an insane amount of caffeine and her body wouldn't just shut down like other spectre's.


As she jogged back to the sleeping barracks, she attempted to wipe the oil from her face but instead smeared it more across her pale complexion. She brushed the knots from her tangled hair out with her fingers and quickly fashioned it into a plait. It was clear she had been in violation of the rules again but hoped the excitement from their first briefing would keep the focus away from her. As she jogged and wiped and plaited, she concentrated on her breathing and maintaining a steady heart rate. She had excelled in the intellectual side of things but now she would have to prove herself on the field.


She creaked open the door to the dormitory quarters and peaked her head through in time to catch the last of the squad leaders orders. Luckily for her she was already awake. She slid through the gap and closed the door silently behind her. As she walked to the trunk at the end of her cot, she kept her head low and her eyes whipped back and forth as a million thoughts ran through her head. They had finally been trusted with a mission but what was it? Would her improvements on the vehicle be noticed and would it help? Was the chatter on the government database related to the oncoming briefing?

 

[Cokes]

F-451 sat up. The General was inbound. Four minutes and thirty seconds for a human to make it from primary security to Spectre barracks at a reasonable pace. It is very early. The General must have been awake for at least an hour before their arrival on base. Impaired reaction time and fine motor coordination, at least a thirty percent increase in time spent at each security checkpoint. Plenty of time. F-451 stepped out of bed and began methodically getting dressed.


Forty seconds after the announcement, footsteps in the hall. Not the General, wrong boots, moving too quickly. Forty five seconds, A-902 barked orders. Fifty seconds, barracks door opened by someone attempting stealth. D-983. Her inevitable death by thalamus failure is probably irrelevant, the shelf-life of Spectres is unknown, and it is reasonable to assume that Spectres will die in combat before metabolic side effects kill them. What had always concerned F-451 is the likelihood of cortex degradation. But those were concerns for another time.


Three minutes and seventeen seconds after the announcement, F-451 was satisfied with his state of dress and grooming. He stood at attention facing the door.

 

[Th3Tru3Cr33p3r]

J-177 ran to the barracks and, once inside, saw most of the squad already at attention, waiting.


"Morning squad."


J-177 snapped a salute in passing A-902. He went to the trunk at the foot of his bed and pulled out a clean set of the specter uniform replaced his identical running clothes with the cleaner set. He transferred his silver skull pin to the new uniform and mirrored the others, standing at attention by the foot of his bed.

 

[Vudukudu]

A-902 put himself together just after spreading the word. He had no clue about the nature of their orders, although this didn't particularly bother him. It wasn't his job to question or be curious, but only to impart the will of a general by way of swiftly delivered death.


Within our minutes, everyone was in the room and uniformed appropriately. There was little else to be done besides wait, and as fortune had it, there wasn't a whole lot of waiting to be done. Precisely four minutes and thirty six seconds after the announcement, the sliding door to the barracks opened.


A man entered, dressed in a well-ironed and decorated uniform. By A-902's judgment, he was probably in his early sixties. The insignia on his chest, coupled with the multiple ribbons, was enough to confirm his identity. General Beauchene had arrived, just as expected. He was a no-nonsense type man, perfectly fitted to provide orders to a group such as this.


The General took a sip from his coffee and briefly glanced at each of the Spectres assembled before him. The idea of vat-clones unnerved him slightly, but their usefulness could not be argued. He finished the grainy liquid in his cup before setting it down on a table and turning to address the squad.


"Good morning, Task Force 37." He began, a slight French accent tinging his speech.


A-902 immediately replied with a curt, "Good morning, General."


The others were expected to remain quiet until otherwise addressed. Such was their training, and they were unlikely to question it.


The General began again after clearing his throat. "Spectres. As you've been told, you will be receiving your first orders today. In six hours, your Task Force will strike the first blow of Operation Torch Bearer. The central objective of Torch Bearer is to take control of valued resources. While the Republic army will no doubt be engaged on virtually every front, we have need of special operations groups for certain objectives. This is where TF37 comes in."


The General paused, scanning the faces of those in the room. The stoicism of those inside came off as disturbing, but he tried his best not to show his confusion.


"The Confederacy has focused much of it's force on the African continent. What remains of Africa has proven quite rich in a few different resources, and denying these to the Confederacy may very well strangle them. As such, we are looking to limit their strategic and tactical capability on the continent. Three generals have flown into Abuja, Nigeria, today. Along with them are their support staff, as well as some civilian dignitaries. Your task is to neutralize the generals, as well as their entourage, then disable the command post in Abuja before the 201st and 506th infantry battalions commence the invasion of Nigeria."


The General waited for a question, some sort of acknowledgment, any sign of life. He got none after fifteen seconds. "Permission to speak, granted." He added hopefully, watching each Spectre.


A-902 let out a long-held breath. "Orders are to neutralize military and civilian targets, Sir?"


The General gave a slight nod of confirmation.


"What is the level of force permitted, Sir?"


"Lethal, Spectre."


"Understood, Sir." A-902 replied, then went silent again. Orders were to apply lethal force to military and civilian targets. This didn't bother A-902 in the slightest.


The General waited a few seconds before gesturing to the others in the room. "Any other questions, Task Force 37?"

 

[Soviet Panda]

"Should we attempt capture, sir?" B-9254 asked in the customary military fashion. If they were able to capture even one general, and crack him/her, they would gain vital information. He was absolutely sure about it. But if he had to, he would not hesitate to blow their heads off. Such was the life of his. "And what should we be able to expect, sir."

 

[Calamari]

Q-515 merely stands in line with her fellow Spectres, keeping any questions (not that she had any) to herself. Her face was devoid of emotion, and she didnt so much as twitch. The only thing that made her smile even slightly were the words "Neutralize the generals". Her kind of mission.

 

[Cokes]

F-451 didn't flinch. Strategy was not his official concern, but he couldn't help but think it. Three high-ranking officers in one location, in relative proximity to high-value assets. Perhaps more tellingly, three high-ranking officers who were delivered in what were apparently easily traceable flights. Suspicious, the Confederates shouldn't be that sloppy. Not his concern. He awaited further instruction.

 

[Lumeneire]

D-983 rose her hand and looked left to right at the squad on either side. Their posture was immaculate and the manner in which they spoke were perfect when speaking to a high ranking official. She embarrassingly withdrew her hand back down to her side and coughed to cover up her blunder. She may have unparallelled intelligence but her etiquette could do with being polished. "Sir! I understand the need to show lethal force to the organic lifeforms, but what of the enemy technology? It would be incredibly valuable to obtain highly advanced weaponry for study. It is to my belief that the ranking generals of the enemy have DNA trigger pistols and state of the art communicative data pads. I request permission to obtain relevant technology to advance our own forces and to undermine the enemies sir!" She fired the words from her mouth in quick succession and struggled to get out a comprehensive sentence. There were so many variants, scientific curiosities and tactics to consider floating around in her overloading brain. When she was finished, she straightened her posture and kept her gaze forwards waiting for a response. The worst that could happen would to be refused permission, but that didn't mean she couldn't investigate findings whilst on the field.

 

[Vudukudu]

The General waited a few seconds after the final Spectre spoke before giving a few rapid-fire replies. "Capture is an operational hazard. You'll be deep in enemy territory, relying on fast movement and very little fire support, if any. Having a hostage puts the rest of the mission at risk. However, if you think you have the time, feel free to have your medic search their skull for any neural implants. Might be able to peel some data off of it. As for enemy presence, expect a significant infantry presence, heavy anti-air capabilities, and possible enemy armor. As long as you don't get pinned down anywhere too long, I doubt it'll be anything you folks can't handle." He finished, then turned to D-983.


"Look at it from a practical point, miss. DNA triggers don't have much of a function, especially when your soldiers are wearing gloves. Even if they've got them, we've got little reason to take them. If you find any operations intel on the targets, take it."


A-902 made note of the General's answers, particularly the enemy forces present. If they got pinned down anywhere, they'd be in trouble. Urban environment, roof tops, alleyways, connected buildings. They'd need to bring breaching charges, and a lot of them, if they wanted to keep on the move in emergencies. He'd make sure to pack a few.


Beauchene gave a slight nod and took a step back towards the door. "Your operation is paving the way for our boys to wreak havoc on the Confederate supply lines. The faster you get this done, the fewer boys the Republic sends home in bags. Your command and control is aboard the Republic aircraft carrier, the Oxford. Your specific contact will be going by callsign Overlord. Now, if you'll pardon me, I have a war to wage." The General finished with a slight bend, a nearly imperceptible bow, before leaving the room.


A-902's shoulders slumped a bit as soon as the general left. I don't like this at all. Why not just call in an airstrike and be done with it? Is this some sort of test?


"Alright. We've got our orders. Everybody bring extra ammo, including for your sidearm. Armor is at your discretion, but I recommend light. We don't know how long we'll be stuck out there before we can be extracted, and having a Warlord battery fizzle out would be a nightmare. Swap out your boots for Jumps, we might have to make a quick exit from some buildings. D-983, grab some extra templates for breaching, I'll carry a few as well. Get your gear packed, be on the flight deck in ten. Five hours forty minutes til we make the drop, and we still have to fly there. We'll only have a few minutes of downtime at the end of the flight, that's when we suit up."


"Any concerns, 37?" He added a few seconds later, then went to retrieve the gear bag under his bed. He punched the armory code into the keypad, opening the rather extensive armory available to them. He grabbed an M37 and his sidearm first, then set about piling up ammunition. He'd likely be carrying extra for everyone else, seeing as they had other specialty gear on hand. A few explosive templates and smoke grenades later, his bag was very nearly full with ammunition or explosives.

 

[Calamari]

Q-515 goes back to her bunk and pulls her footlocker out from beneath it. It took her a minute to get her Dragoon armor on, and another to calibrate the HUD. The rest of the time she had left would be used to inspect her Judgement sniper rifle and checking her ammunition. Though her face would betray no emotion, those who know her well could tell from her body language that she was quite happy. "Anything to get out in the environment" she muttered under her breath.

 

[Lumeneire]

D-983 channelled her anger into the balled fist of her hand. She clenched her jaw and then relaxed as a carefully released huff of air escaped her mouth. Her body deflated and her anger dissipated. "Yes sir." She replied reluctantly as the official answered her question. She had expected to be turned down but not in such a disregarded manner. She had submitted a report several weeks ago into the enemy development of DNA triggered weaponry and pointed out the pro's and con's of the advanced technology. Her findings and thoughts had not only been ignored but had actively been buried. They know damn well that if I could acquire just one pistol, I could reprogramme it to work for our regular troops. That means the enemy couldn't pick up the weapons from our soldiers corpses like vultures and use them against us in the field. She bent down to the trunk at the end of her cot and rifled around to find the components of her armor. She picked up the microphone and inspected the hearing bud to make sure it was all firmly intact. They know I've developed schematics for a DNA disruptor too. I could cripple the enemy's weapons with one EMP long distance explosion. She dug deeper into her organised container and pulled out her Repair kit. She lay it out flat on her crossed legs and gently tweaked at the instruments inside. As she caressed her fingers along the metallic objects, she listed off in her head the names and usage out of habit. Miniature Welder, vehicular management. Double end wrench, multi purpose. Universal screwdriver, multi purpose, sufficient for armour. She carried on like this for all ten items then tucked them in the side pocket of her bag.


Four R7 templates should do. One Vault Buster breaching charge, just in case. One AT mine, if it's too heavy, I'll make B-925 carry it. Three, no four anti-armor grenades, lets give them something to scream about. She slotted them all into her bag neatly like a well played game of Tetris and tested the weight. She grimaced a little as the heavy combination pulled the muscles in her arm and she gently placed it back at her feet. "Hey B-925, mind carrying my AT mine? I won't be able to move quick enough with it." She stated as she walked it over to his side. She dropped it on his bed and ran back over to her trunk without waiting for a reply. She didn't mean to be so abrupt and inconsiderate, it just came so naturally to her.


She hoisted her now manageable pack onto her bed and picked up the M23 handgun from under her pillow. It wasn't the official place to keep it but she was a paranoid personality. She also liked to tinker with it if she couldn't sleep. With a few tweaks here and there, she had managed to reduce the weapons recoil and muffle the barrel considerably without a silencer. She tucked it into the front pocket of her bag and grabbed a few ammunition clips from the pile stashed in her side drawer. She may be unorthodox when it came to organisation but her way of doing things maximised efficiency and allowed her precious few more minutes to think and work. As she piled the spare clips into her trousers ammunition pouches, her mind drifted to her previous thoughts. Something doesn't seem right about this mission. She had seen the brief hesitation from A-902 and noted it in her memory bank. And he knows it too. She stood up straight with her inventory counted and her kevlar light armor slung over her shoulder. She pulled it over her head and tightened the straps as she dawdled over to the flight deck. Lost in thought and concentration, she almost walked into a wall or two and had to bounce off her squad mates shoulders to keep her moving forwards.

 

[Soviet Panda]

"Give it here then." B-925 said when D-983 asked him to carry an AT mine. He should probably pack another one himself, just in case. By the time the AT mine was brought up, he had already slid a rather large container out from below his bunk, and another empty one. He had also gotten a few of his armor pieces on, just the Jump boots really. Pulling tbe chest piece over his head, he turns his attention on how to back the empty crate, the ammo crate. It had several sections divided up by a steel wall. 'Guess one will be for the Prosecuter ammo, medium sized one. Another for the Judgment, small spot. And the rest can go for the assaults.' "What you assault taking? You won't run out if I know." he shouted over his shoulder, torn between taking more assautl rifle ammo or shot gun. He also placed the mines in a smallr slot, forced to turn them side ways. Everything else he'd have to carry. In several of his vest pockets came the ever useful deflector projector, or whatever it was called. On the left side of his belt, R-7 template, and a smoke grenade or two, with Adjucator ammo on the left. His pants pockets were then filled with the other random stuff that was needed, like binocluars (can't remember name).

 

[Th3Tru3Cr33p3r]

J-177 had started putting on a set of Dragoon armor. He felt out of place in the much lighter armor but it was better than running out of power partway through an op.


"What you assault taking? You won't run out if I know." B-925 shouted from across the room.


"I've got a shotgun, an M37, and an M40." He hollered back. "Hell, throw in a couple Gibber canisters as well."


J-177 slung the rifle across his back and attached the M40 to a clip on his armor. He loaded a couple pouches with ammo and started filling the rest with tons of the various explosives available to the team, mostly R-7 Frags but also packed a couple breaching charges.

 

[Calamari]

Q-515 tests her Jump boots a couple times before pulling them on. "You guys ready yet? Today wouldn't be a good day to keep the general waiting." She says as she slings her Judgement rifle on her back and holsters her handgun. "Not that there ever would be a good day..."

 

[Soviet Panda]

"Alright, packing it. Anyone else?" B-925 said as he closed the box and tested it to see if it was to much. It was close, but he could probably take a drone or AT mine. The box had two straps that he could put over his shoulders, making it into a kind of back pack. And below that he could have a small pouch, a fanny pack if you will, that could carry some extra ammo for him. "Offer going once. Offer going twice. Offer going thrice?"

 

[Cokes]

F-451 watched D-983 flinch. Her usual outbursts. He hadn't expressed his concern at the decision to reduce her database restrictions. F-451 had many concerns, but he knew his place. His concern was his own survival and equipment. His mind raced through relevant variables and options.


Military base, small time window, primarily low engagement range, no more than a few hundred meters, low risk of non-superficial and non-fatal injuries, low squad dispersion, rapidly escalating resistance. Dragoon armor, jump boots, medical scanner, bare-bones medkit, M25 Carbine (presuming a continuation of US military nomenclature and the number of rifle iterations suggested by the M37) with a 2x telescopic phosphor sight, FMJ 7.62x51mm ammunition, M23 with a 1000nm IR laser sight, hollow-point .45 ammunition, combat knife.





With his usual casual pace, F-451 collected his selected equipment and suits up.

 

[Vudukudu]

It didn't take long for A-902 to look at his bag and shake his head. No, no, tactical mistake. Close range engagements.


Within about 15 seconds he had substituted his M37 for a G42 SMG. He wouldn't need the range of a rifle for this mission, anyway. He didn't have time to add much to the SMG at the moment, but he threw a laser sight into the bag to attach later.


With the bag over his shoulder and most of his armor loosely strapped on, he headed for the flight deck where their transport would be waiting. Expecting the others to be close behind, he boarded the one open Wyvern transport and set his bag down beneath his chair. The others, as expected, were no more than a minute behind him. In that time, he had tightened up the straps on his armor and prepared the laser sight. As soon as all were aboard, the drop bay door mechanisms activated and shut the door. The engines roared to life a few seconds later, followed by a voice from the cockpit. "Let slip the dogs of war, am I right?"


A-902 didn't understand the reference, but he figured it must mean something to most people. In his experience, the proper response to excited voices was to sound equally excited. "You're right!" He called back. The pilot groaned and shook his head a little before lifting off and starting the long flight.

 

[Calamari]

Q-515 would lean back in her chair and close her eyes. Tactics were on her mind, especially with her brethren's weapon choices. If this city was anything like the ones she had seen pictures of, roadways and rooftops were the best routes for her. If she would need to go through any tight spaces, the accuracy of her pistol would have to do, or the swiftness of her knife. Either way, she wasn't worried in the slightest. Someone needed to have enough range to counter an enemy sniper, anyway.

 

[Lumeneire]

As D-983 sat in her designated seat, her fingers twitched in her lap. In her mind she ran through the procedure to take apart a template and tweak the components to make a smaller and more precise explosion. She chewed on her lip and flared her nostrils in concentration. She couldn't deny how nervous she was but she also couldn't quite place the reason why. The entire team had been getting restless and at times demanding that they finally have a mission and a reason to put their existence to the test. Deep down in the bottom of her stomach acid swirled around like eggs in a blender. She could taste the acrid bile in her throat and swallowed hard to rid herself of the foul flavor. Her intestines knotted and her heart pounded. She should not feel nervous. It was a Spectres job to be brave and fearless but right now, her entire body trembled from fear. She knew what would be expected of her, of all of them and she also knew they would perform perfectly. Her instincts however told her that something was off and that whatever they were being thrown into, was much more than the General had explained to them. D-983 knew that once she was on the ground, she would undoubtedly follow the squad leaders orders to the letter but she also knew that she would try and find an enemy datapad no matter what the cost.

 

[Soviet Panda]

As B-925 entered the Wyvern dropship, he expected to be somewhere within the clscale of nervous to out righ panick. But he felt calm, almost drained. He knew what he had to do, thanks to all the training. He had his gun, R-7 templates, his armor, and his suadmates. That was all he needed, and he trusted them enough. He would fight to protect them, and he figured they would fight to protect him. Now, what did they have to expect? Enemy armor, anti-air elements, and infantry. Armor wouldn't be super effective in those tight streets. If they were aboe to get ahead of it, an AT mine will make short work of it. Taking a seat, he looks at the others, and sees how nervous some of them are. "Hey, I got your back." he said to all of them, but seamed to talk to each one of them individually.