Fuck you. Fuck them. Fuck everything.
This was supposed to be a simple snatch-and-grab. Drop in unannounced on some blanks, stomp them hard enough for them to give up the car keys to their rides, then disappear into the sunset with Viking’s new metal underwear.
Nope. That couldn’t happen. That would be too bloody convenient.
I should’ve left him drugged up and happy in the medical instead of hauling his nearly fragged ass out here to die heroically.
The op went smooth. Maybe that should’ve been my flashing LED warning light. We hit our marks and were primed to head off with the goodies.
Except for that vat-soaked, urine-gargling, gug-fucker of a Field Marshall.
I swear, the next person who uses the words “at all costs” to me again is going to get a 9mm suppository! If they’re lucky. If not, well, if you offset a plasma blast juuuuust right, the heat’ll turn them into a meaty pop-corn kernel.
Shit. We’re a bloody RECON squadron, if you can call two effectives, a mostly dead pilot, and a vaguely mech-shaped pile of scrap components a squadron. We have NO fucking business holding ground. EVER.
I’ll follow that bastard’s orders, but from the very bottom of my soul I hate him for it. Hate him for killing us all for a damned gesture. I’ve got one hell of a gesture for him.
So let’s just lay it all out for a moment.
I have an Auphan, an Aral, a Hurricane, and two jerry-rigged Sabres piloted by a wash-out and a guy just this side of a coma. For support, I have seven infantry and a Werewolf who were equipped for a fast snatch-and-grab. They had no heavy, anti-armor ordnance.
And we have to defend, to the last fucking man, a busted down nuclear storage facility built over a century ago by a defunct nation, spouting radioactive coolant, and situated in a shallow valley against BOTH the Migou and the Rapine Storm. Best day EVER!
Fuck me rigid.
We have one major asset; speed. And Field Marshal squid-fucker is making us play DIRECTLY to our weakness.
So I improvise. Field Marshal Polyp-poker has to call me at the last damned minute to tell me all our buddies are downrange so I pretty much have NO options to actually, you know, SUCCEED at accomplishing my mission.
Got to hand it to him though, that rancid septic back-wash has a good sense of humor. Dumped a shuttle load of ordnance off for us complete with pissed off “Secret Squirrel” puke trying to lay a guilt trip on my pilot. He better hope I get my ticket punched here, because if by some miracle I walk out of here, I’m going to find him and then I’m going to shoot his balls off.
The crates made the gun-bunnies happy at least. They definitely dug in better.
We got our own back-handed present. Mecha Claus delivered to us a blood-thirsty bastard in a Gladius and a “Licker” who’s human component is flirting with the edge of a complete psychotic break. The records I could pry loose about her do not fill me with sunshine and rainbows. The Engel program does not slap “Classified” on records for reassuring things. There’s a LOT of “Classified” in her very sketchy file.
They were a major up-tick in tonnage though. Slow, but thanks to the cock-bite with all those fancy stars on his shoulders, that isn’t much of an issue now.
Worst comes to worst, they did finish up Cut-throat’s little project in good time.
We got lucky with the spin ship. I figured those bastards would open up on the block house. Their lasers were a bit better at punching holes in it than I like though. I just hoped they’d decide the place was pacified before they managed to hit either of the Sabers inside.
Except Babysitter is all balls and no patience.
Luckily, they never saw him coming and he had enough gun to make it count. The sensor take when he opened the ball looked glorious. Then again, now they knew we were there, if we didn’t shut them down hard, it was going to royally suck.
Cut-throat took the initiative to down one of the fast-mover escorts. Shotguns are fantastic for skeet.
Hop-scotch didn’t need any coaxing to break cover and break them. Holy fuck I’ve missed the sizzle of a large plasma cannon.
Of course, with the damned bugs directly overhead, how could I refuse to say hello.
- It’s fun to bite into a spin ship.
- It’s easier than I expected to hold on.
- Cassiel finds spinning boring after three seconds.
Then it crashed. Taking fire does tend to cause that.
My landing was better.
I don’t think anyone complained that I put a few more plasma rounds into it, just to be sure. I thought I was going to have to order Hop-scotch to cease fire. Definite impulse control issues with that one.
The gun-bunnies are on their way back. Wash-out had a “moment” during the firefight. Viking says he has it handled. I don’t think I want to know.
As the result of a brainstorm, I had Hop-scotch rip the D-Engine from the spin ship. She found a partially operational Locust. It probably tasted better than the ground did earlier. But we have the D-engine.
I don’t think I’m going to continue the brainstorm though. Too much risk for too small a result.
Let’s see what the fluff-maggots and the rest of the stormies are bringing.
I wonder if it’s worth the court-martial to cold-cock Vreta?
That’s worth thinking about.