#jumpjet

[edains]

playing the ot again made me very sad i couldn't jump

[apothecaryassistant]

smorgasboard of mech stuff

occaisionally want to try and make something that uses light autocanons effectively, but it's just not an easy task

[canopiancatboy]

Shadowhawk SHD-2H

Shawks are kinda trash, but I've been doing Alpha Strike where they're much more average and viable, rather than an unfocused ammo bomb with bad jumpjets

I do adore the design, over the shoulder cannons are sick as fuck after all (Guncannon my beloved) but y'know, no props to them for that since it's just stolen from Fang of the Sun Dougram

Used some nice forest bases I bought on Cults to craft new hex bases for my mercs, and I'm pretty happy with the result, the medieval stonework look had been bugging me

[abalidoth]

Replanting (Chapter 1)

(Chapter 2)

[read on ao3]

When you feel the missile clip the corner of your mech's leg joint, you know it's over.

It feels like a line of white fire directly to your brain; your pain and the mech's mingling. But pain is nothing, pain is your every day. It's the immobility that terrifies you. Your mech knows before you do that the leg won't work, can't carry you back to base.

They won't send a field repair team out this far, not into enemy territory. Not even for the material outlay of the mech. You have no illusions of what would happen to you if they had to extract, but at least it would be fine, given a new pilot and allowed to keep doing its duty.

Don't think like that, it sends to you. I don't want another pilot.

You struggle a few dozen meters until the residual coolant in the leg motivators gives out and the intractable hand of physics pulls your mech to its knees. A cloud of dust billows up around you and you give up the rest of the way, mech lying on its side amid the baked earth and the scrubby bushes.

Creosote bush, the mech says. Didn't know it grew this far north.

You know it's just trying to keep you from panicking. It's not working -- you can feel your heart racing, the connection gel around you contracting in an autonomic effort to keep you from thrashing in the cockpit. Worst of all, your handler's ever present voice in your ear has gone silent.

A pilot's job is to keep its mech moving. No more and no less. You know there's no real affection from your handler, that her ministrations are part of the system, but you can't think about that sudden abandonment without a pang of grief. She should be there, she should always be there, but now there's nothing. Silence and static.

That feeling gives you a rush of adrenaline, coarser and hotter than the artificial flush the mech gives when you complete an objective, purely a product of your own withered adrenal glands. You have to get back you have to get back. You struggle to your knees, planting the mech's hands in the caliche like anchors and shoving so hard you feel something pop. (In you? In the mech? Is there a difference?)

You make it another hundred meters before you fall again, and the Caskie mech finds you, hitting you with an EMP before you can take them down with you. It lands with a jumpjet hiss in your sightline, so you're treated to the view of the alien-looking mech opening its canopy wide, two pilots getting out of the crude-looking mechanical cockpit.

---

They salvage the mech with you in it.

The pilots didn't seem to know what to do with you; you could hear from your outboard sensors that they were discussing in that strange, fluid accent how to get you out without killing you.

(You don't understand why that matters.)

Eventually, they just called for reinforcements; three heavy carriers showed up some indeterminate amount of time later. They haul your mech, pilot included, through the air on a frankly ridiculous web of heavy cables. You see the desert fade to green, canals threading through the land like veins, as you pass from the disputed zone into Union territory.

Your mech keeps a constant stream of commentary, talking about the plants that it sees, pointing out where old semi-arid forests have been restored. Its voice across the neural tunnel holds false cheer, picking up whenever you start panicking, but the enthusiasm is genuine.

Finally the carriers land at a base. It looks much like Conclave military architecture, concrete in utilitarian blocks, but you can see shining glass and chrome off in the distance, a city. They must want to keep you a ways away from civilians. You suppose that's fair.

They land you in an empty mech bay. It’s been cleared out hastily – you can see the Union mech that used to reside there off to the side, plugged into an aux power array. Your mech is not the right size, not the right shape, but a gaggle of mechanics come out anyway. They locked a restraining clamp on you at some point so you can't move, can't fight. Still, the mechanics move around you warily, like you'll snap and take them all out at any moment.

You would, in a heartbeat. Not just to get the euphoric response, but to quiet the anxiety, the feeling that you're entering a world where you don't have the tools to survive. But you can't, and a quiet part of you (or the mech) is relieved at that.

They strip your mech of all its weaponry, a harsh and hasty disassembly. You feel each removal sharply. Not physically -- mercifully, the mech has dialed down the haptic connection so it's left to suffer alone -- but in loss of potential, the closing of options. 

Finally, when everything is done and your mech is defenseless (other than being a fifteen ton vehicle) a tall woman in a labcoat comes out, flanked by guards with red cross emblems on their sleeves.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is formal, neutral. Lower than you expected, with just a hint of that singsong Cascadian accent. "Can you hear me? Or see me? We have sensitive solid-conductance microphones on the outside of your mech so we can hear you if you speak."

You know the trainings. A pilot is part of the system, part of the Conclave war engine, and cogs don't speak. Your tongue flicks idly against the suicide capsule in your back left molar. You go to press in on it.

You feel something, like a hand, guiding you away. A great wave of fear washes over you, and you know it's not yours.

Please. No.

You stop. Think a moment. 

"Hhhhh."

It's been a while since you've spoken. Just whispers in the dark with your handler, words carrying neither voice nor meaning. Your throat is dry, and you feel for a moment like it's not there. (Why would a mech have a throat?) You clear it, and try again.

"Yes. I can hear you."

She nods. "Good. I'm Dr. Mia Crane. I'm required by Cascadian Union treaty to inform you that as a prisoner of war, you have rights including food, shelter, protection from torture, and the right to ask about your other rights." She adjusts her round framed glasses. "I'm required by basic hospitality to ask you your name."

You pause. You know what names are, of course. Your handler's name is Rebecca. But that's not something pilots have. "I, uh. No?"

She blinks, a little taken aback. "Okay, well, we can work on that. Do you at least acknowledge your rights as a prisoner of war?"

This isn't going to end until you acknowledge, you feel, so you just say "Yes."

"Okay. Is there anything we need to know before we get you out of there?"

"I don't want out," you say. Your throat tightens.

You can't stay in me forever. It's okay. You'll find a way back to me.

You hear a hissing sound, and the low, sick gurgle of the connection gel draining out of your suit. Before you understand what's happening, the canopy drops open and you stagger out of the mech onto the diamond-patterned steel catwalk.

The sharp edge of disconnection, the sudden hole where there should be something inside you, keeps you off your feet. You stagger to one knee, felled as surely by shock as you had been by the missile.

The guards rush over to you and help you up. You want to fight them off but your muscles are jelly. Your head hurts.

Dr. Crane looks you over. You know she's not your handler, but you reach for the familiarity anyway, half expecting the usual routine, the ministrations that get lost in the foggy haze of post-battle euphoria. If your arms weren't being held for your own stability, you'd start opening your suit.

Instead she shines a light in your eyes and asks you to stick out your tongue, making notes on a clipboard as she goes. She puts a strip of fabric around your arm and it gets tight for a moment. "Elevated heart rate and systolic pressure, pupil dilation is beyond what I consider normal."

Your heart hammers in your ears. The smells around you -- the saccharine sweet of connection gel, your own body, something undefinable coming off the doctor, heighten to a nauseating strength. Your head hurts. "Are you going to..." You swallow. "Do you have the syringe?"

Dr. Crane tilts her head. "The syringe?"

"When the..." How do you explain this? You haven't had to explain any of this, people just know what to do. "When I'm done. Rebecca, she has the syringe, it's blue, and."

"Do you know what's in it?" she asks, gently. Too gently. The words are too soft, they smother you, it's too hard to breathe.

Your head hurts. The lights beat down.

"No, but it... she... always..."

Your head hurts.

Your head hu--

---

There are voices.

At first you don't care. You just want to go back to sleep. But there's something wrong with your bed, it's too soft. And the voices don't sound right -- that soft lilt, one you've only recently heard.

"Patient has been stable for six hours. Their heartrate is still a little funny, and I'm not sure this godawful cocktail of tramadol, modafinil, and tricyclics we pulled out of their tox panel is good for anything other than keeping them from dying of withdrawal, but we should be seeing them awake soon."

"Thanks, Dr. Chen." You recognize this voice, soft and husky -- it's Dr. Crane. "Have you figured out the... um. Mortality problem?"

"Part of it is that stimulant cocktail, I'm sure -- we haven't had the chance to pull in a full Conclave mech with pilot intact, and our field teams don't have the tools to stabilize someone as quickly as we were able to do here. But the most likely reason... false molar full of tetrodotoxin. We made sure to extract it. Carefully."

You probe the back of your mouth with a sluggish tongue. There's still a tooth there, but it feels strange. The one that had been there was artificial already, of course, but this one is much smoother, more like the rest of your teeth. Something lightens within you -- you've lost an option, sure, but maybe you were never good with options.

"Fuck," Dr. Crane says quietly. 

"That's not all," Dr. Chen says. "There's extensive neural grafts consistent with the autopsies we've performed, but... there's something weird going on with the brain activity scan. I'm not sure what the Conclave is doing to their people, but it's scary."

"Nnn. 'M not," you say.

There's a rustling around your bed. You open your eyes and blink against the sharp light a few times, and eventually the face of Dr. Crane comes into focus.

"Hey," she says. "Glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

You have no idea how to deal with this. Never expected to be in a hospital room of all things, being treated like valuable materiel instead of ammunition. So instead of answering her question, you just repeat your previous statement. "I'm not. Person."

She gives you a look you don't really know how to read. You never had to get all that good at reading faces, but you suspect this one might be hard even if you did.

"...well. Anyway." Dr. Crane clears her throat. "You had a medical emergency when you left your mech. You mentioned something about a syringe? I assume that's part of your post-operation routine? We've got you stable now. We're going to give you about another day to rest up before we bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning?"

"You're the only Conclave pilot we've brought in alive," she says, with a twist of her mouth. "It's damn near impossible to piece together any information about Conclave technology and hierarchy. I should know -- I'm the Union's top academic expert in Conclave culture and I always feel like I'm flying blind."

That was... a lot. You just nod.

"So you said something about... not having a name? Do you have something you'd like to be called? I know you're technically a prisoner, but you're safe here. People will respect what you say you are."

She says that last part with a lot of emphasis, a particular gravity to the words, but you're not sure why. "No."

"Okay. Designation number?"

"They re-assign our numbers every week so we don't get attached to them," you say.

She says a word under her breath that you don't know, other than that your handler says it when she gets mad.

"Alright." Dr. Crane takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "How about I just call you "Pilot" for now?"

That's what you are, and you don't see why that's so difficult, but at least this line of questioning seems to be over when you answer yes. She promises to check on you in a while, and leaves.

---

You dream about vines.

They're all over you. You haven't seen many vines up close -- there was sparse ivy on the back of one hangar for a little while before Maintenance took care of it. But you feel you know these.

They aren't strangling you. It almost feels like a caress, like the flight suit, like Rebecca's post combat care, but not quite any of those. It's pleasant. Cool rather than warm, and calming.

There is intense pain in your arms and legs, but it doesn't bother you. It's like someone is telling you that your limbs are being shredded, but the pain isn't getting through to the part of you that cares. It's just another sensation, less pleasant than the vines but certainly not bad.

You feel things you can't explain. A name, a pull in a direction that's not physical, feelings and sounds beyond your ability to parse. They build to a crescendo, and you wake with a shout. But at the edges of your awareness, the green is still there.

---

The next morning, you're herded into a shower stall with a clean jumpsuit, a washcloth, and a bar of soap. You clean yourself off as well as you can, given the circumstances. The soap has a soft smell to it, and no grit. It almost doesn't feel like it's cleaning you at all, without the scratches.

You knock on the stall door once you're finished dressing, and the door slides back. In addition to the two guards, Dr. Crane is there. She's wearing the same white coat, but her hair is pulled back, and she looks even more tired.

Still, she manages a slight smile. "Pilot. Did you sleep well?"

"No," you say.

"Ah. Well, hopefully we can help with that tonight. In the meantime I have some questions for you."

You follow her through a maze of white corridors, lit with skylights. Your sense of direction was never the best (your mech always took care of that, you think with a twist in your gut.) You wouldn't be able to find your way back if you needed to.

She leads you to a room with two chairs, both of them plush and soft. You feel like you're sinking into it; she looks like she's perched on hers. She balances her clipboard on her knees and starts in eagerly on the questions.

There's a part of you that feels you should shut up, refuse to answer, let them finish the work they didn't let your false tooth start. But one handler's as good as another. You're a weapon, and weapons know no loyalty. So you answer -- even when the questions don't make sense, or aren't about obvious things, or are about things you've never been allowed to see.

The reactions don't really make sense to you either. You talk about some of your worst missions, and she seems sad but like she knew what was coming; you talk about your handler, and she's gripping her clipboard so hard her fingers go pale. You stop trying to understand what's going on, and try to hit the same state of unconscious action that you do on a sortie. Question, response. Question, response.

There are a few about your accommodations. They're fine, of course. You have little standard for comparison, and if she asks if you need anything else, you feel she won't leave you alone with a "no," so you ask for books. Rebecca was always reading when you were doing synch tests.

After what feels like the whole day, Dr. Crane lets you go. She doesn't ask you any questions about the haze of green starting to fade in around the corners of your vision when your mind drifts, so you don't volunteer any information.

---

The next day's meal comes with a couple of books, and Dr. Crane seems determined to find you the right reading material because every meal tray thereafter has more. There's a shelf in your room for the purpose. It was a ruse at first, but it is genuinely a better way of spending your time then staring at the wall.

There's more questions, along with a handful of medical tests, supervised by Dr. Chen. Dr. Chen's questions are even stranger than Dr. Crane's, but at least they seem satisfied with the answers given by the scans and blood draws.

A few days pass until you get a good enough feeling of the layout of the facility to know which direction the hangar is in. You occasionally see Caskie pilots in groups of twos and threes, talking and joking with each other. No handlers, no augments that you can see -- if you hadn't seen people in those same outfits walk out of their primitive looking mechs in the desert, you wouldn't believe that they were pilots at all.

All of them are coming and going in the same direction, and it's a direction that Doctor Crane and your guards never take you. So naturally, the first chance you get when both of your escorts are distracted and you have the chance, you peel off that direction and start running.

Your augments sing as you stretch your legs. They’re not like infantry augments (or so you’ve heard) and they don’t have auxiliary power – you can feel them burning away your body’s energy, energy that would normally be supplied by your mech. But your desperation fuels them just as much as your calories do, and the initial burst of speed and agility is all you need.

The facility is confusing as always, but you spot a sign that says HANGAR and get reoriented. Startled cries fly in your wake, doctors and workers and pilots confused at your frenzied speed. Something that might be an alarm and might just be lighting flashes at the corner of your vision, nearly obscured by the green.

You get lucky, and a mechanic is coming through the secured door at the checkpoint at the same time you arrive. You take advantage of her confusion and duck underneath her outstretched arm, through the door and out into the hangar bay.

It's not hard to find your mech. You remember the layout from your brief spell of consciousness after arrival, the way your mech looked so different from the rest and didn't quite fit into its space.

You pull up to a stop, wheezing from exertion, and look at it with dismay.

Your mech has been dismembered, all four limbs strewn about the bay hooked up to various pieces of testing equipment. The body itself is on a riser jack, slightly askew like there wasn't the right connector to fit it, hooked up by thick cables and patched-together connectors to the exposed limb contacts. The canopy stands open, the inside unlit but visibly cleaned of leftover connection gel.

The sight makes you sick. You hold it down, but barely; but the nausea makes it hard for you to resist when a burly mechanic comes up behind you and wrestles you to the floor.

You're not sure you would have, anyway.

By the time Dr. Crane has shown up, your face is wet with tears and snot, and your breath comes only with sobs. You're still being pinned to the ground by a mechanic, but she's not putting her full weight into it. She more or less let go when you started crying.

Dr. Crane pushes through the crowd of onlooking mechanics and kneels down in front of you. "Are you all right?" she asks.

At first, you think she's addressing the mechanic; it would be such an incongruous question to a pilot about to be terminated for insubordination. After a silence disproves that theory, you shake your head and gesture with one semi-restrained arm to the mech. "No."

"I'm sorry, pilot," she says, "but you are still a prisoner. I'm going to request the board not to restrict your access for this, given that you didn't really hurt anything -- and I'm sure they'll listen to me -- but you surely didn't think you could just get back in your mech and run away?"

"No," you say again, frustration at your own inadequate words prompting a fresh fall of tears. "It's... you're hurting it, you're..."

Things click together, things that you've always known. Feelings shared through the neural tunnel, deeply held beliefs that couldn't be kept from a pilot. You understand, now, what your mech was trying to tell you all along.

"You're hurting her."

Dr. Crane looks from you, to your mech, back to you. She goes pale.

"Are you telling me," she says quietly, "that there's an AI in your mech? A sentient AI?"

You nod. It's too late to lie, now. To protect her. The green in your vision threatens to overwhelm you. You're sorry, so, so sorry...

"A sentient AI that... we have been effectively torturing for four days. Fuck." She takes her glasses off, buries her face in her hands for a moment. "I can't believe that didn't come up during questioning."

It could have. You had avoided the topic, because you were afraid of this happening -- your greater part, torn away and experimented on because you couldn't keep her safe. You had always heard that the Union had strange beliefs about machine minds.

Dr. Crane looks around to some of the mechanics. "Anyone who was working on this mech -- did you have any idea there was a sentient AI? Any anomalous readings?"

"Some anomalies came up in the report that indicated synaptic activity in the post-0.4 Turing level," says one mechanic, nervously playing with their hair. "But everything about Conclave tech is anomalous. Kinda got buried in all the other weirdness."

"Okay." Dr. Crane sighs. "Can we get some input/output hooked up to her, please? And give her her limbs back."

One of the guards flanking her frowns. "I don't think that's a good--"

"She's a prisoner of war, Ortega. Pretty sure removing a sapient being's body parts is against something in the codes. Not to mention the First Principle."

Ortega sighs, and waves some mechanics over.

---

They don't know what connection gel is, but it doesn't matter. The sensation of her against your skin is important, but not as important as just reestablishing the connection.

Dr. Crane apparently spots your longing glances towards your mech, and takes you by the arm. When you flinch back, she holds her hands up in a defensive posture. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was just going to guide you over there again."

There's a lot of activity going on in the hangar, between the mechanics re-arming your mech and the other pilots getting suited up to react in case she tries to start killing people. (You don't think she's going to, but you suppose you can't blame them too much.) It would be a shame if your reunion with your mech got postponed because you got beaned in the head by an inattentive mechanic carrying a crysteel strut, so you offer your arm to Dr. Crane again and she guides you through.

You don't want to take too long, but you're only going to get to do this once. You run your hand over the lip where the canopy seats into the body, feel the soft seal and the framework beneath, then lift yourself up over and inside the cockpit.

There's no gel, so you can't hear her voice right away, but you know what to do. Years of drilling guide your hand to the hidden compartment with the emergency connection pads. It falls open with a clunk, the ribbon cables and connection pads jutting out in a fall like vines. One on either temple, one on either side of the chest, one on the back of each trembling hand. You're probably being watched, stared at as you have been since you broke into this hangar, but you don't care. She's here.

Hello, love.

You shudder, come apart, not in a procedural way like with your handler but in a form that shoots through to the very core of you. Untouched, but undone. You have no words for her, but you know she can feel your relief and your joy. You crumple, weeping, and run your hands over the familiar inside of the cockpit.

The green in your vision doesn’t go away, but it recontextualizes. It’s her. It’s the part of her that lives in you, a fragment within a fragment.

It's a little while, just basking in the connection, before you realize you've fallen in an uncomfortable position. Your skin, your joints, protesting their treatment. You reorganize yourself, pull yourself from the connection just long enough to get there. 

They've hooked a set of speakers up to her ports. They come to life with a spiky flare of static as she finds her voice.

"Hello," she says. You can feel her voice from inside and outside, through the tunnel and through the skin of the mech. "I am a Conclave of God Armored Forces Samson-B Light Interdiction Unit, but I would prefer if you called me Acacia."

[absentwriterdoll]

896

C:"896, signal lost."

...

W:"896, still active."

C:"896, copy."

I can feel the hydraulics straining as I push against the controls.

As ever, if the reactor is still intact, it's not a confirmed kill.

The display shifts from dirt to the horizon.

Tracers streak across the sky.

H:[Warning. Internal bleeding detected.]

I can feel as much.

I scan my HUD.

Right side, lost. Left shoulder, depleted. Left arm at 35%. Left hip at 10%. Point defense at 20%, 45%, 30%, 10% respectively.

I sigh.

It hurts.

Even if I wanted to, there's not much more that I can do.

W:"896, munitions depleted, heavy damage sustained. Requesting permission to withdraw."

C:"896, granted."

W:"Harry, plot a course home."

H:[Acknowledged.]

I notice my point defense lighting up at far-off infantry.

I swap them to critical only. With this damage, I'll need the cover in case another mech realizes I'm still alive.

H:[Course plotted.]

W:"Send it."

I feel my legs shift under me - but I keep my eyes on the horizon, my weapons pointed toward the enemy battleline. A wounded mech is always a primary target.

Two missiles streak out from the infantry I saw earlier - nothing my point defense can't handle. Though, for good measure, I send a few rounds their way.

Everything hurts.

H:[Administering stimulant.]

A sharp sting in my neck - just a prelude to the pain lessening.

At least, in a minute or two, anyway.

Part of me wonders how much I could leave to the onboard AI. It already calculates most of the firing solutions.

My role is just selecting a target and pulling the trigger.

But it always has to be a human pulling a trigger.

Otherwise...

It becomes a question of when the AI starts deciding who is worth pulling the trigger on.

Can't let it start deciding who lives and who dies.

Best case scenario, it turns on its makers.

Worst case scenario, things devolve into a forever war.

…

Who’s to say that this isn’t a forever war already.

A mech raises itself on the horizon.

And I begin loosing rounds downrange.

My missing mass causes most of my fire to go wide initially.

A series of flashes.

And I react.

A round strikes me - but it’s off center.

Better than the alternative.

But my left hip doesn’t respond. I’m nearly defenseless.

W:“896, requesting support, relaying target.”

H:[Relaying target.]

It’s nearly all I can do to hope for the best.

M:“512, responding.”

H:[Radar lock detected.]

Tracers light up the mech from its side, causing it to buckle and flare - right as it looses a fusillade of missiles from one of its shoulder pods.

My point defense lights up, as does those of 512’s.

One zeroes out. I turn my hull to expose Three and Four.

Four zeroes out.

But Two and Three manage to clear the air with 512’s help.

10% and 5%.

W:“896, permission to request cover.”

C:“896, granted. Assigning 512.”

M:”512, moving to cover 896.”

W:“896, thank you.”

An unnecessary communication slips from me.

But it’s the truth.

I should be dead.

But I’m not.

C:“512, signal lost.”

In the corner of my eye, I see 512 light up - and vanish into fire.

And I see the one that did it. 

I loose rounds from my left arm - until it clacks empty.

And I hope to whatever gods may be listening that it doesn’t get back up.

Their reactor is still intact. It’s not a confirmed kill.

W:“896, relaying target, requesting kill confirm.”

A few moments pass - and then tracers streak in from afar.

Then a detonation.

L:“288, confirmed.”

W:“896, acknowledged.”

C:“288, cover 896’s retreat.”

L:“288, copy.”

In silence, I think my gratitude.

Part of me wonders if I should just withdraw on foot.

I glance at Harry’s AI core.

It would be a simple matter of-

L:“896, bogey.”

W:“896, munitions, defenses depleted, ejecting.”

H:[Radar lock detected.]

W:“Eject.”

H:[Ejecting. Give them hell.]

I pull Harry’s AI core.

And I’m launched into the air.

Tracers from the point defense flash out below me - until both remaining guns zero out. In the air, I release myself from my seat and spark my jumpjets.

Below me, my mech detonates.

On the horizon, I watch 288 engage the enemy.

288 closes with the bogey, tracers streaking between the two, maneuver jets flaring.

288 manages to get behind the bogey and tears the reactor core out - tossing it and firing a round at it before turning its attention back to the dying remains of the mech -

And slaughters the remainder.

I reach the ground.

I take a deep breath.

Thank Harry for the stimulant.

Thank 288 for the cover.

And run.

=====

Cast in order of appearance:

C - Control, the battalion’s handler. Used to be a pilot.

W - William, 896’s pilot. The most experienced pilot in the battalion.

H - Harry, 896’s AI. Leaves a copy of itself onboard when 896 ejects.

M - Maya, 512’s pilot. Relatively inexperienced. A rookie that tried to fill bigger shoes.

L - Liam, 288’s pilot. A vicious warfighter, leaving nothing to chance.

=====

Inspired by Armored Core VI and The Forever Winter.

[is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not]

A curious refit of the Huncback IIC. I don't have a name for this unit, but it appears to be heavily modified. Engine and armor were upscaled, with 9 tons of ferro replacing the old armor.

The jumpjets were unchanged despite the engine being upscaled. Why? I don't know. Beyond me.

It does do more damage though and with far more short range flexibility, so I suppose if that's what matters...

Also i threw inferno ammo in there. I have nothing else to add, enjoy.

Certainly looks effective - if heretical.

though with a Small Cockpit, one extra heat sink, a Combat Computer, and Improved Cooling Jackets on all the weapons, it would be entirely heat neutral.

[buttsandboltguns]

One for the Money

Calypso was cold, alone, and ready to give up.

Staring out of the shattered and twisted remains of her assault mech’s canopy, Calypso knew she was only buying time. She had long since disabled the mech’s weapon venting systems and some of its reactor cooling, hoping to stave off the chill sweeping into the cockpit from the outside. Large flakes of snow settled into her hair, and her breath billowed in the icy air. At this rate she would have to risk shutting off more heat sinking.

If only she hadn’t sent the other two members of her squad away. Signed her own death warrant for the promise of their safety. Instead here she sat, her mech idling in a frozen pass as she waited for her inevitable doom by freezing or by the next enemy wave.

The radar of her Corsair had begun to ping again. Dumping herself back into the mech’s command seat, she reconnected her pilot suit’s umbilical to the interface port in the command console and pulled the neural control helmet down over her head. Her vision blurred as the system performed a rapid re-calibration, its scanning suite adapting the neural interface to the concussion she was currently sporting.

Slipping her hands around the control sticks, she gave them a gentle wiggle to ensure they still functioned properly. The mech’s arms and torso responded in kind, servos groaning in the cold as the warmachine jerked and snow sloughed off of it. The pedals reacted in much the same way, with the legs whining a tired complaint as they raised the beleaguered 150 ton beast back to its full height. A quick punch to both pedals at the same time pulsed the jumpjets once, ensuring the thrusters still had connection to their propellant.

Radar showed a full combined arms company advancing towards her position. Transports for two platoons of a mixed sort, two full armored squads, and finally a full squadron of mechs. If she wanted to survive, she would have to strike hard and brutal. Ignore the infantry and go straight for the armored units and the mechs. Seismic told her one piece of useful information - though they had the numbers advantage, she had the tonnage advantage. None of the mechs were heavier than 50 tons.

Calypso’s hands flew over the control console as she reenabled heat sinking and raised the reaction rate of her warmachine’s fusion plant. The temperature in the cockpit slowly dropped, then abruptly spiked as the reactor was brought up to full military power. Thousands of KW of power coursed into the power converter, beginning to charge the capacitors necessary for the machine to fire its weapons.

It was time to show them all why her callsign was Buccaneer.

Manipulating the pedals, the mech lurched into motion. Slowly at first, then coming up to a faster lumber, finally breaking into a heavy crashing sprint. 

The enemy’s mech squadron was about to break into the pass. They were leading with a lighter scout unit, normally a good tactic… but it was soon to be the grave of this one.

Punching her feet hard into the pedals, the jumpjets fired and sent her skyward on a roaring column of argent plasma. Calypso was slammed deep into the command seat. Her spine complained in a way that she knew would mean another trip to the doc if she survived. Reaching the apogee of her flight, she aimed her mech down towards the unlucky scout mech as she let off the jets. Her mech plummeted like a meteor.

The scout could not evade the Corsair’s meteoric descent, nor was it built to sustain it. The light machine crumpled like a tin can with a destructive shriek under the machine nearly ten times its weight, the remnants being driven into the frozen dirt and gravel underneath mechanized hooves. 

The other mechs in its squad had rapidly begun to back up, their weapons coming up to train on the battered assault mech. The staccato burst of autocannon fire filled the air as they opened fire.

Twisting the left stick over, Calypso slewed the torso of her Corsair hard to the left. Her right thumb pulled back on a microstick, elevating the mech’s right arm to shield its cockpit from the withering barrage of fire. Her skull rattled with the sound of the munitions slowly eating away at the armor of her right flank.

Angling the left arm over, she aimed through her helmet’s secondary viewscreens. As she depressed the main gun’s firing stud, her cockpit was illuminated with a hellish glow reflecting from the walls of the pass and the armor of her own mech’s arm. The blinding bolt fired from the plasma cannon struck out from under her mech’s right arm, tagging a medium class mech in the shoulder. Ceramic plating melted and sloughed away as the bolt burned deep, revealing zinc-titanium latticed structure underneath.

A shot, lucky or good, blew past the armor on her mech’s right flank. The temperature in her cockpit abruptly raised as part of the reactor’s heat containment was blown away, turning from tepid but comfortable into a gently wafting oven. Sweat began to slick Calypso’s exposed skin. Were it not for the lack of armor, she would be glad the cockpit’s glass had already been blown away.

The Corsair’s torso slewed back to neutral as she brought her full weapons complement to bear. She dragged the majority of the generated targeting array over the already damaged medium mech. One targeting reticle she brought over a secondary mech - one that hadn’t properly positioned itself to take advantage of its weapons just yet. She cycled down to the final firing group in her list and squeezed the firing stud.

A full salvo fired off. Not only did she fire her plasma cannon, but all eight of the twin-beamed lasers mounted in her torso. The air between her and her target turned into a disco inferno while the lasers pulsed between their twin beams, maximizing the damage inflicted on the target. Her secondary weapon, a second plasma cannon, nearly sheared the cockpit clean off of her secondary target, instead digging a deep furrow into its torso armor.

The medium mech that was her primary target slowed, then slowly lost form and collapsed as the structure of its limbs slagged and melted under the equivalent weapons fire of a light mech company. As the mech crashed to the ground, liquid metal splashed away from the damaged sections of armor and structure, spattering across the landscape and quickly cooling.

Calypso’s own mech swiftly suffered the consequences of mounting such an aggressive attack. The temperature of the cockpit skyrocketed, becoming a horrid blast furnace. Her cooling suit worked overtime to try to compensate for a level of heat that no human was intended to survive as the warmachine tried its hardest to cook its own pilot. She would not be able to mount another attack like that unless she was given time to cool.

She slowly reversed her Corsair, hoping to get the assault mech back into the pass before the armored units were able to bring their guns to bear. She would have little luck as a series of light tanks swung wide, their turrets turning to face her machine. She had to evade!

The mech’s torso slewed hard right just as the tanks fired. Shells battered her armor, and one caught the frame twisted frame of her cockpit canopy, sending hot shards of broken armor and glass spraying into the cockpit.

It felt like all of the air in the world had been punched out of Calypso’s chest. Everything hurt. She could feel her lungs strain as she fought to suck in a breath, her piloting suit leaking sterile coolant both inside and outside, mixing with her blood and slicking her lower half like a hot, hellish lubricant. Finally, she managed to take in a breath and she blearily looked at her interface helmet’s heads up display.

In the moments she needed to take to recover, she had lost ground. Enemy units had crept closer. How long had she been out? She could see markers that indicated infantry around her mech. Were they climbing her mech? Was she going to have to defend herself?

Her line of thinking was interrupted as a gloved hand grabbed the rim of her broken open canopy, the infantryman beginning to pull himself up over the lip.

Calypso’s hand snapped to a sidearm. She drew, pointed, and fired three rounds. The first shattered the soldier’s faceplate, the second and third punched his ticket as his body went limp and fell away from the glaring hole in her cockpit.

Press checking her sidearm against part of the command seat, she was satisfied to see she had loaded the good ammunition today. She would be taking as many of the infantry with her as possible before she either bled out, ran out of ammunition, or got overwhelmed.

A roaring grew outside Calypso’s cockpit. Slowly, then swiftly turning into a hellacious din that often indicated some form of jet. Gunfire erupted outside the armored coffin that was the Corsair and she allowed herself a moment of hope. Could it be an ally? She had to take advantage.

Checking the heat gauge allowed a moment of planning before the Corsair exploded into violent motion again, thrashing its body in a jerky motion to throw the infantry from it. As it re-centered its torso, Calypso was able to see her support - a high speed mech, more sleek lines and thruster units compared to her blocky assault mech. It couldn’t weigh more than 40 tons. But the amount of weaponry it brought to bear was comparable to a mech twice its tonnage.

The fast mech skated around the outside of the enemy unit, the jettison capable autocannons in its hands roaring a song of destruction. It moved with an unnatural fluidity, a dancer’s grace, skirting around weapons fire as it emptied its own ammunition reserves. Tanks and combat vehicles fell to pieces, with Calypso counting more plumes of smoke than operational vehicles.

Its autocannons ran dry. With the bang of explosive bolts, both weapons fell away from its arms and it extended twin blades, swiftly jetting in towards the final remaining mech. It stopped its boost and came in low, skidding along the ground before leaping up in a tackle. One of the blades sank deep into the prey mech’s flank, while the other tore its head clean off. Sparks flew and a gout of plasma puffed from the torso of the machine as its reactor fizzled out. 

The mech stood from its final prey, turning towards the remainder of the enemy force and shaking the coolant from its retractable blades. The remaining units had begun to beat a retreat, firing up the universal sign for a surrender - a white flare.

The mech’s posture relaxed as it stalked over towards the Corsair. When it came close enough, Calypso realized with hazy amusement that its name was High Velocity, emblazoned along one line of its torso’s stealth grey armor. She watched as it brought itself up alongside the Corsair and belatedly realized that she had allowed her own mech to sink down, though she wasn’t certain when that had happened.

High Velocity came to a stop. A panel of its armor near the “neck” of the machine opened up and then slid back on rails, allowing the interface cockpit to unfold. More cables than Calypso was frankly comfortable with ejected from the pilot’s suit and the pilot scrambled in an uncoordinated manner across the armor plating, crossing over to the Corsair’s flatter upper surface.

Calypso let herself relax in the command seat. The access hatch to the cockpit unlocked and was pulled open above her, allowing the other pilot access to the inside of the Corsair. A lithe pilot dropped in, their sleek pilot suit betraying little of their identity. Ports across the suit leaked combat drug reflux, though none of the liquids seemed to have bodily fluids mixed with them.

“I came for you,” came a raspy voice from the pilot. Their - her? voice was clearly often unused, though to her it seemed familiar.

An abrupt moment came back to Calypso. Meeting one of those “interfacers” in a dive bar during leave. The two of them - mostly her - talking in a relatively quiet corner for a few hours and probably far too many drinks. The interfacer saying she’d come for Calypso if she ever got herself in too deep. What was the pilot’s name, again…?

“Yeah,” Calypso wheezed out in agreement, a pained grin spreading across her face. “So you did. Hope help’s not too far behind.”

The pilot of the High Velocity shook her head. She moved to straddle the command console, slowly disengaging elements of the mech’s operational capacity until all that was left was its reactor. The pilot gently unplugged the umbilical to Calypso’s suit and disconnected her neural helmet from the battleROM.

“The rest of the rescue is near. Just hold on,” she stated, gently rubbing the foreheads of their piloting helmets together.

Through the cracked visor glass of her own helmet, Calypso realized that she could barely see the face of the other pilot through her helmet’s tint. She wondered if that was intentional. Ah, that was her name! 

“Thanks, Julia. I owe you one.”

______________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading One for the Money! This is based off of that one post talking about the differences between pilots who functionally drive a weaponized tractor and traumadolls who are linked into their machines drinking at a bar.

For some clarity:

This too is yuri.

Julia (official callsign is in WIP right now, working on figuring that out) is a pilot for a militarized outfit who take advantage of people in bad situations. She's inspired by Armored Core.

Calypso is part of a small mercenary group, and she's worked on getting the Corsair tuned up to be quite the beast of a weaponized tractor. She's inspired by BattleTech.

The Corsair having what's referred to as "a light company's worth of weapons" isn't wrong here. In BattleTech terminology, she would have the functional equivalent of two PPCs, two clan LPLs, six clan MPLs and then (in future engagements) two racks of cSRM-6, which is actually MORE than what most light companies would have. The Corsair is intended to be written as a hellishly heavily built mech with all of the problems that come with that - namely, the heat output.

The second entry to this series has been released here!

[boinkingbattlemechs]

Violet Cheetah V

Overview

The Violet Cheetah is not a new 'Mech. Instead, it is a conversion kit of the Iron Cheetah. Much of the armor geometry is redesigned and the weapon distribution is shifted.

Capabilities

The Violet Cheetah is primarily a generalist 'Mech designed for operation in command units. The ER PPC of this 'mech allows it to reach out and punch holes in armor while the ER medium lasers provide it some brawling ability. An LB 10-X autocannon rounds out the offensive completement. Providing utility to the Violet Cheetah is a quadruple threat of a C3i computer, a targeting computer, an Angel ECM system, and finally a Bloodhound Active Probe. These systems, when crosslinked to other 'Mechs in a unit, permit it to sniff out the enemy and enable pack hunter tactics. A laser AMS on the left arm finalizes the defensive armament. Included in the conversion pack is a full set of jumpjets allowing for 90 meters of movement.

Deployment

The Violet Cheetah is only known to operate with the Jaguar's Shadow independent drop cluster, who originated the design, though other elements of Clan Smoke Jaguar, most prominently Khan Prohaska Moon, have expressed interest in the design.

History

Produced as a refit kit for the Iron Cheetah OmniMech in 3153 during Operation TOUCHDOWN, the Violet Cheetah was designed and named by Star Colonel Katrina in honor of her lover and abtakha Violet Marigold, who was killed in the initial combat drop onto Helios.

Variants

There are two known variants of the Violet Cheetah conversion kit. The V type mounts an Angel ECM and a Bloodhound Active Probe. The M type exchanges the Angel and Bloodhound for the Clan equivalents of standard Active Probe and ECM systems, while using the saved weight and space to increase the amount of ammunition for the LB 10-X.

Notable MechWarriors

Star Colonel Katrina Moon: the product of an experimental Clan Smoke Jaguar sibko that attempted to replicate the results of the Totem Warrior project, Katrina was present for the Battle of Huntress in 3060 as a young sibcadet. Evacuated from the planet and joining the nascent Fidelis, Katrina would go on to participate in numerous secret raids on enemies of the Republic of the Sphere as part of their campaign of false flag operations. By 3153, as part of the recently reconstituted Clan Smoke Jaguar, and after winning the presdigious Moon Bloodname, Katrina would be tapped to lead a Fidelis-inpsired independent drop cluster, the Jaguar's Shadows. It was with this unit that she deployed to Helios as part of Operation TOUCHDOWN.

(Full TRO under cut; 'Mech originally designed by @starcolonelkatrinamoon / @buttsandboltguns ; art by @theurbanmechcomesforthee )

Mass: 100 tons

Chassis: DSAM Endo 4

Power Plant: 400 Model SF-3 XL

Cruising Speed: 43.2 kph

Maximum Speed: 64.8 kph

Jump Jets: Standard

Jump Capacity: 90 meters

Armor: Composite A-4 Ferro-Fibrous

Armament:

39.5 tons of pod space

Manufacturer: Manufacturing Plant SFF

Primary Factory: Itabaiana

Communication System: TJ6 Bell Integrated Communication System

Targeting & Tracking System: Series III OPT

Introduction Year: 3153

Tech Rating/Availability: F/X-X-X-X

Cost: 41,824,167 C-bills

Type: Violet Cheetah

Technology Base: Mixed (Standard)

Tonnage: 100

Battle Value: 3,278

Equipment Mass

Internal Structure Endo Steel 5

Engine 400 XL 26.5

Walking MP: 4

Running MP: 6

Jumping MP: 3

Double Heat Sink 16 [32] 6

Gyro 4

Cockpit 3

Armor Factor (Ferro) 307 16 Internal Armor Structure Value Head 3 9 Center Torso 31 48 Center Torso (rear) 14 R/L Torso 21 32 R/L Torso (rear) 10 R/L Arm 17 34 R/L Leg 21 42

Weight and Space Allocation

Location Fixed Space Remaining

Head None 1

Center Torso Endo Steel 1

Right Torso Endo Steel 7

2 XL Engine

2 Ferro-Fibrous

Left Torso Endo Steel 6

2 XL Engine

3 Ferro-Fibrous

Right Arm 2 Ferro-Fibrous 8

Left Arm None 10

Right Leg 2 Endo Steel 0

Left Leg 2 Endo Steel 0

Right Arm Actuators: Shoulder, Upper Arm

Left Arm Actuators: Shoulder, Upper Arm

Weapons

and Ammo Location Critical Heat Tonnage

Jump Jet CT 1 - 2.0

Targeting Computer RT 4 - 4.0

Improved C3 Computer RT 2 - 2.5

Jump Jet RT 1 - 2.0

LB 10-X AC LA 5 2 10.0

Laser AMS LA 1 5 1.0

LB 10-X Cluster Ammo (10) LA 1 - 1.0

LB 10-X AC Ammo (10) LA 1 - 1.0

Jump Jet LT 1 - 2.0

Angel ECM Suite LT 2 - 2.0

Bloodhound Active Probe LT 3 - 2.0

4 ER Medium Laser RA 4 5 4.0

ER PPC RA 2 15 6.0

[dangerousthingobservation]

Harrier jumpjet

[rotglass]

god DAMN what a jumpstrike !! having HILDUR's jumpjets tuned up helps immensely

witness HILDUR (almost) at her finest :3c

still on the look out for a melee battlemech with a longsword loadout, or maybe another assault type and use a claymore :o

(oh also, fixed my recording stuff for mechwarrior 5, so expect mecha clips :3c)

[professionalscrublord]

4th SW report 2.5: Moon Battle

So named 2.5 because it's a rush mission after #2 and they have not had a maintenance cycle yet. Mechs and pilots from #2 are still unavailable.

The Setup:

The mercs hide out in a moon crater attempting to lose the tail. The pursuing dropship detects them on sensors, and lands to deploy ground forces.

The radio crackles with interference, standing in the harsh light of the local star with no magnetosphere for protection.

"You have committed crimes against the noble state of Capella and her people! Power down your forces and submit yourselves for arrest!"

With warning lights and sirens all around, a hiss of air evacuated from the deck fades to nothing before the mechbay doors open and the mercenary lance is greeted with the sight of the bright gray moonscape against a stark black sky. There will be no giving up, not today.

Objectives:

Opposing dropships are landed as depicted above (Battlemat: Lunar/Grasslands B). Mechs deploy from the center dropship hex moving out through the yellow bay doors for their first move. Objective is to either disable all enemy mechs, or get over the line to shoot out the enemy dropship's engines (100pts of damage for this scenario)

Lunar Vacuum Conditions:

Low Gravity:

-Double jumpjet max distance (going over rated max cuts evasion in half due to slow predictable arc of movement)

-Half falling damage

-Running causes piloting roll (Watching astronauts fall over on the moon is funny)

Vacuum:

-4 engine heatsinks disabled reflecting difficulty cooling

-Extreme Range bracket for double Medium range available at +6 to hit (No air resistance)

-10+ hull breach check on every hit. Breach disables (but does not crit) all equipment in location, eg. CT breach shuts down engine.

-Pilot exposed to vacuum via breach or ejection takes 1 damage per turn (with resulting consciousness check each time)

Briefing:

Madlad Mercs (working title)

Chief Tactical Officer Wren Jensen

Crew address en-route to Ambergrist's moon

"I'm not going to lie to you, Mechwarriors, what's coming up is a fight for our freedom and for our lives… Or at least slightly more so than usual, anyway. It's a risk we had to take to maintain the biggest contract we've ever had. If the Third Ceti Hussars wouldn't outright drop us for breach of terms they'd likely offer only backwater planetary garrisons where we'd never see combat -Or a good paycheck- Ever again… And I know most of you would rather die than miss out on a payday. This war isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and the Federated Suns are going to have need of us to keep St Ives independent.

Warrior-House Fujita is hot on our tail. We're going to pick a crater to hide in, power down the ship, and if we're lucky they'll fly right on by. If we're not - That's why you'll be waiting in the mechbays prepped and ready. Losing this battle could see us arrested and imprisoned, or worse. We're not going to let that happen. Take out their lance, or disable their dropship to force a surrender.

Remember the conditions:

Any hit could lead to a breach, meaning armor is less valuable than speed. Range and hit rate matter more than raw firepower.

Low gravity and no air resistance means weapon range is longer than usual. You may be tempted to run and jump in low gravity but you'll have a harder time staying balanced and evasive.

Your mechs won't cool as well in vacuum either, so watch your heat gauges. And for shit's sake, disable the auto-eject… You will NOT want to take an impromptu spacewalk, even if your mech is exploding.

Good luck, Mechwarriors."

Overview:

Despite a lack of good evasive maneuvering in low gravity, and the Precision AC ammo being used by the Mercs' Commando and Wolverine, there were a lot of missed shots all around and surprisingly few breaches.

Hard vacuum kept some of the more dangerous mechs from making full use of their weapons and jump jets, and most engagements were carefully kept at arms length to minimize return fire.

Battle:

Allied Wolverine took an early Gyro hit which slowed it down, but luckily it was able to stay standing through several difficult piloting checks afterwards.

Enemy Mongoose got shut down instantly mid-battle by a CT breach, passing a pilot check to come to rest upright but could only watch the fight in silence from then on.

Allied Commando pushed for a flanking maneuver and took a lot of fire, landing some hits but having to limp back starting to overheat with Engine and Heatsink damage. The Griffin provided covering fire to it but had several unlucky misses, including rolling two Snake-Eyes back-to-back.

Enemy Phoenix Hawk had lots of Jump Jets, Medium Lasers, and a Large Laser, but only enough cooling to use one at a time. It pushed into slight overheat jumping up a hill to snipe with the LL for a while but did not land significant hits.

Enemy Shadow Hawk soaked a lot of shots with its empty Left Arm, and took two non-critical breaches as it advanced into melee range of the allied Wolverine, but failing to kick it over despite the damaged Gyro. It also blocked a return punch with its left arm.

Only one mech each pushed far enough to shoot at the enemy dropship, Merc Locust and Liao Shadow Hawk.

Turn 5 saw a meteor shower that missed all mechs but the Mercs' Commando, dinging it in the torso without causing a breach.

Liao Urbanmech attempted to block the Locust's shot with Shielding Movement but was unsuccessful. The following turn the Locust dodged a massive AC/20 round from the Urbanmech, which would have destroyed it instantly no matter what location it hit. Then the Locust dealt enough damage to the dropship to break the tie in favor of the Mercs.

Card Initiative helps for speed of play. No hemming and hawing about who to pick for moving, it's THIS guy, now do something. Also no BS with initiative sinking from useless units, and more fairly handles a disparity in unit counts. Also, Timothy Seals' MW2 OST remix on in the back for ambiance!

Exfil:

The Mercs dealt more engine damage to the enemy Leopard by game end and were considered to have disabled it.

The Capellans, stranded and down one mech, were convinced to accept a ceasefire and await rescue, allowing the mercs to escape.

Having concluded the defense rapidly, the Merc ship left to make their rendezvous to get picked up in time to jump out of system.

In recognition of the merc unit having gone out of their way to maintain the contract's integrity, House Davion has chosen to reimburse combat damage for the moon operation as a show of good faith.

After-Action Reports:

Operational report:

Escape successful

+1 Reputation

2 enemy mechs crippled:

-Mongoose (shutdown via CT breach)

-Shadow Hawk (LT breach)

1 allied mech crippled:

-Commando (LT breach)

No salvage (No map control)

However, battle damage refunded by employer.

Accountant's report:

LCT-1M, "Witness"

-1t LRM-5 Standard ammo: 5wp

WVR-6R, "Bub" (1 injury)

28 Armor: 28wp

-1t AC/5 Precision ammo: 10wp

-1t SRM-6 Standard ammo: 5wp

-Gyro damage (275 engine): 10wp

COM-1C, "Dutch" (1 injury)

19 Armor: 19wp

8 Structure: 16wp

-1t AC/2 Precision ammo: 10wp

-2 heatsinks refurbished from breach: 2wp

-Engine shielding damage (150 engine): 3wp

GRF-1N, "Chicken"

-1t LRM-10 Standard ammo: 5wp

Leopard: 12pts engine damage: 12wp

124wp 1,240,000 CB total bill

+89wp +890,000 CB compensated by House Davion

Merc Account: 1754wp

-Remaining ammo costs: 35wp

Final Account: 1719wp

17,190,000 C-Bills

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

Guess who, and ive got my go-to 'mech with me.

The Centurion. no matter the era, this stubborn bastard will come plodding along ready to slug it out til either it or its opponent kicks the bucket. but i am not here with a CN9, instead i bring my take on the CN11-O, the 3111 Omnimech version of the old classic, as promised earlier

the CN11-O-NI (yes those are my accounts initials, im not good at creative mech designations) is designed to follow the originals general intention of being a reasonable and reliable all-rounder.

First up, the fundamentals of a 'mech. the -NI keeps the XL fusion engine and Compact Gyro of the base variant. a slightly explodely engine isnt ideal, but the gyro would actually end up being useful so that works. I replaced the IS double heat sinks with clan models, not that the space saving really matters as this variant sticks with the 10 engine mounted sinks. It sticks with standard armour, but it does carry an extra half ton over the base variant, 10 tons instead of 9.5. the most notable change is the 5 jumpjets i added, not many centurions variants have them but my second favourite 'mech the Enforcer spoiled me slightly so i like to have them.

Weapons, a few notable changes here. Ive exchanged the LRM 10 for an MML 9, allowing for some close range punch without entirely sacrificing range and indirect fire. 3 tons of ammo means there space to play around with specialty ammo, but ive gone with 1 ton SRM and 2 tons LRM (which is about what the base model had for its LRM).

The big one (or not so big one) is exchanging the LB-10X for a clan Large Pulse Laser, because i like my lasers and it saves 5 tons.

While 3 of those tons go to the jumpjets and armour mentioned above, the other two go to a pair of small pulse lasers, one in the right arm ala the CN9-AL, and the other facing rear in the centre torso for making sure infantry dont feel safe no matter where they are (i said the compact gyro would be useful). Having the small pulse laser facing backwards means i can turn both ER medium lasers, the only holdover from the base model, to the front arc for no reason other than being able to punch thing in the face harder.

Ive only just realised writing this up that i havent played with the quirks at all, so all its got is the easy to pilot of the base model, but hey it was never meant to be that fancy so it works.

Amidst clantech ATM boats or 3153 rebuilds of crazy super weapons, this mech is simply meant to be mine, what id picture myself actually piloting, a reasonable 50 ton trooper for later time periods without being stuffed to the gills with the most advanced tech the setting has to offer. perhaps the sort of thing that might be piloted by some poor davion that got claimed a bondsman by some crazy old clanner in a Highlander and dragged into the reborn SLDF, as an example

Anyway, i can only resist the urges for so long so imma go and stuff it with clantech now, or maybe come up with a really mixedtech version

Well, this looks quite good to my eye. I shall seek additional commentary.

[risingshine]

...been thinking too much about cyberpunk! AU with @piltover-sharpshooter: two friends, born in wealth and always rivals - one with cyberware and one with biotech, until in the end Chi Ki became the first person to ever pin down a cyberpsycho.

Implant Ideas Below:

Chi Ki's Bioware includes

'Alligator Skin' implant - keratin subdermal scales like on an alligator that can stop bullets and blades and spikes.

Due to her subdermal scales, she had 4 bioports installed to be able to intake and draw from her internals when needed.

Myostatin supression for increased muscle mass and density, leading to 4x the number of muscle fibres

Macrosupplements and Growth treatments to increase her body size to properly support the muscle growth

'Gorilla Bones' implant and supplementation to make bones thicker, denser and more mineralized, and form extra cartilage for shock absorption

Bone grafts to ribcage to form interlocking plates, covered in cartiladge, to protect her inner organs

'Predator Eyes' - Eyes implants built like eagle's eyes, as well as lupis tatedum for darkvision

Nerve reinforcements, supplements and training to increase reaction time and nerve strength - she can't fully process situations, because that takes time, but she can block bullets and punch people running sandavistans.

"Elephant Heart" Transplant of a massive heart to pump enough blood to support the rest of the system, as well as having an additional ventricle and artierial chamber as a backup

"Blue Blood" infusions that transform blood to include horseshoe crab antibodies that give extra resistance to poisons, toxins and illnesses (she is anti-cop, dw)

Drug treatments to increase blood cell count, increasing oxygenation of blood, iillness resistance and coagulatoin/scarring time, reducing blood loss.

As for Cait's Cyberware, basically every combat cyberware under the sun.

Titanium bones, reinforced piston joints, synthetic muscle implants, mantis blades + gorilla arms, subdermal armor, sandavistan, shock absorbers, blood pumps, Kiroshi optics (with scanner, scope, nightvision, antismoke/dazzle and lie detector), military grade netrunning gear, ballistic and smart proccessors, anti-smoke nasal implants, antidote implants, nanosurgeons, etc.

...and Midnight Lady augments.

the only added idea was microboosters in her calves (basically mini jumpjets) for increased run speed and double-jumping.

[luimnigh]

So, Day 2 of Manchester, and the only full day I spent there, as I am writing this from the Airport on Day 3. Just a flying visit.

So after having breakfast, and with a few hours before my appointment, I decided to go visit an attraction. On the way, I saw some nice sights:

I saw Manchester Central Library from my tram.

No idea what these are, but I think they're taller than any building in my entire country. Ireland doesn't build upwards, for some reason.

Foreshadowing for my next trip abroad.

Nice looking bridge.

It's difficult to make out, but there's Blue Peter badges on the railing in front of the building.

But anyway, I'd come here to see a exhibition that details a history of strife and turmoil, death and atrocity, and many terrible deeds.

The Coronation Street Experience!

Just kidding, I went to the Imperial War Museum (North).

Despite the name, it's a very somber, respectful, and ultimately anti-war museum detailing the personal stories of soldiers and civilians from wars across the 20th Century.

The first thing you see when you walk into the main exhibition space is an anti-war sculpture, invoking both the imagery of military graveyards and bombed-out cityscapes:

Then again, the second thing you see is a Harrier Jumpjet:

[nyxgoddessofcandles]

what would my insert hero 'mech be?

you'd expect the obvious answers probably

maybe even some outliers

what would you *not* expect?

Great Turtle /w an Alarming quantity of Thunderbolts

and some jumpjets because heehoo turtle fly

[silvery-bluish]

27 or 35 for the touching prompts, please. Whichever one speaks to you more

this has been sitting in my inbox AND my wips for far too long. whoops. but hey, I did both of them! they have ENTIRELY different moods.

Wordcount: 452 + 375

Contents: 27- post-reveal, mid-some sort of Catfiend fight. Flystep adjacent, but not resolved. Don't worry about the context I don't know what it is.

35- Chargeflystep. Nebulous don't worry about it future. Soft and sleepy. Just scars no bruises but I think it still counts.

27. pulling the other one towards them

It’s impulse, reaction, motion without thought and you never move without thought except--

Okay. One thought. One fallback. No— and grab for Daniel’s arm and yank, pull him directly into you for lack of anywhere else to go, claws and limbs and mind too-caustic too-sticky to get a good bead on, but you can see the edges of it and the way it’s headed, and it turns too quick for Daniel to read so--

Armor’s not the kindest thing to collide with, but it’s less sharp than the Catastrofiend’s blades. He winces, flinches back from you, more muscle spasm than actually fleeing but only because he caught the impulse and that feels like a blade, too. Slipped right between your ribs, deserved and welcome. 

You fire your jumpjets at the same time, he’s light in your hands, no real extra weight for the jumpjets, and you can’t afford to think about the fear-terror-anger that blares against your mind like a goddamned klaxon.

Blades catch the edge of your cape, slice through fabric like butter— too sharp, unnatural, Mortum doesn’t go in for cheap polyester— but you’re clear, for a few seconds. Balanced on a knife’s edge less literal than the Catastrofiend’s. 

Because as convenient as the jumpjets are for getting away, they’re not built to maintain altitude. A split second of free fall before Daniel — Herald he’s Herald remember that — catches the both of you. Hero reflexes, even now. Even with you. 

He doesn’t drop you. Arms flailing, briefly, to get a good grip, but gravity doesn’t yank you back. You’re torn between being-- so relieved that he didn’t drop you and so, so scared that he’s still trying to save you.

You still trying to save him was never even a question, to you. He’s got every reason to let you drop right back into those glinting blades, and you’ve never stopped caring for anything truly important in your life. At least you’re aware of how stupid your loyalty is, even if he deserves it. Even if he deserves so much fucking more than it.

No time for that now. You’ve got more immediate problems that need your full attention. 

“Going down,” he warns you, aloud, and you brace for the intensifying of the freefall drop, but it’s— measured, still, no stone’s fall to the ground here. 

There still no time for niceties, even if he wanted them, your face obscured by your helmet and his by his goggles, both of you persona and not person except Herald’s part of him in a different way than Anathema is a part of you. 

You refuse to let yourself hang onto him. He doesn’t let you go until you’re both on the ground. 

35. kissing their bruises and scars

There’s pressure to the side of your nose, warm, the sensation of something fuzzy brushing the space between your eyebrows. Open your eyes, find Ricardo on the exit, and you sigh, eyelids heavy but you want to see. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, voice hushed, and Daniel’s shifting now too, bleary blinking sleep out of his eyes where he’s curled around your arm. It’s too early, you think, and a vague glance towards the alarm clock says-- yeah, too early. Early enough the resident morning person is just as asleep as you.

You catch Ricardo’s hand, bring it to your face, sleep-hazy press of it to your lips. You know where the scars there are, where his mods meet skin, as well as he knows where to find your scars in the dark. “You’re up early.”

“Things to do, people to see,” vague, annoyingly so, but you’re not awake enough to want to push right now. “Go back to sleep, Ars.” Daniel’s already taken the cue— or, not quite, but he’s shut his eyes again and is just listening. 

“Don’t get yourself hurt, idiot,” you say, but you can’t muster any of the bite you want in the tone. He laughs, steps closer again to kiss your lips and drops one to Daniel’s forehead, in convenient reach.

“No promises.” 

“Don’t end up in the hospital again,” Daniel, chiming in and on your side, even if he’s still groggy, too. 

“I’m just meeting a contact. She keeps weird hours, it’s fine, both of you.” Exasperated now, but fond. 

You start pulling yourself more awake, moving as if to untangle yourself from Daniel, “Do you want—“

“I want you to go back to sleep,” Ricardo says, laughing, pulling the blanket further around your shoulders and pressing another kiss to your cheek. Along the scar under your eye. “Ars, really. It’s fine. I’ll be back for breakfast.”

“You’d better be,” muttered, and he laughs. You’re sure you aren’t very— intimidating right now, sleep-mussed and disgruntled, but that’s alright. 

Ricardo doesn’t close the door all the way behind him, leaving a thin slice of hallway light falling into the room. Daniel tucks his cheek closer into your shoulder to block his eyes, and you settle back in.