Walking out to your tank, you breathed deeply. Realistically speaking, there were too many communications links you had to cross in order to get your hands on Hooker. Any call you put in would need to go to Silica to get it on the telegraph, then it would need to get channeled through The King, then after going through The King it would need to go through Quietus, before getting radio'd over to wherever Hooker's command post was. Considering you knew- mostly from Tepes' experience- that the Colonials were employing active jamming and interception, that meant you'd never get the orders through in time. Worse, they'd hear your communications, and come screaming down your throat. That would just get everyone killed.
So. Just pulling the existing Marines wasn't an acceptable option. You needed something else to help get things rolling. Mounting up, you tabbed over to the radio station for Zairman, on his regimental command circuit.
"Zairman, this is Orr. Got a minute?"
"I'm free, yeah," he said, voice scraggly as a burst of static came through. "Keep it quick, please."
"Do you think you could skirmish for a few hours? At least four?"
"Maybe-" you heard, before a burst of static cut him off.
"Read back, please."
"Maybe," Zairman said, still very fuzzy. "This fort's better set up. It'll be harder."
"Do your best, and if its' too hot, we'll pull out."
"Read back, over."
"Do your best, we can pull out if its bad."
"Copy that," Zairman said. "We'll do our best. 64e out."
With that, you immediately tabbed over to MacLaine. "MacLaine, come in."
"Aye, General?" he asked, sounding tired even over the tinny call.
"How are you and yours holding up?"
"We've got about… oh, three hours left in us. Maybe one decent scrap."
"Can you stretch to four?"
"Four hours of ass-sitting, sure. Four hours of fighting, forget about it. We're on cold meals and Kirknell's best sippy cups, General Orr. It's bad here."
"I'll see what I can scrape up, but it's gonna be a lot of ass sitting. Just keep waiting and digging."
A snort managed to work its way through the comms channel. "General, we can either wait and be not quite fresh for the fight, or we can dig and be stuck in trenches. Pick one."
"I pick dig in. I don't know what naval artillery bombardment is like, but I expect nasty."
"Wilco."
With that, your orders were handed out. Getting back down, you looked around the desperate bunker base, frowning at the piles of laid-up soldiery. "Lieutenant Kitsuragi," you said, pulling out a cigarette to keep your temper calm. "Is it the standard operating procedure of the Navy to keep their men like this?"
"We're strapped for b-mats and shirts, so yes," Kitsuragi said. "The working parties are in half-bell shifts, so in a bit they'll trade off. Most of our people are walking wounded, so their endurance is bad."
Opening your mouth to send them to the regimental corpsman, you stopped, realizing that A: you didn't have a regimental corpsman after you'd defacto held the job, and B: you couldn't buck this up to the brigade corpsman, because you didn't have a
brigade anything.
Actually, that was a good question. Could you have separate brigade-level resources, or would you need to make a paper holding regiment? The answer was probably in your book, but now wasn't the time to check. You still had to call Kazoo. Pulling up his frequency on the radio, you tabbed in, catching a blast of Ukrainian swearing as one of the captains gave a report. As Kazoo told him to rotate out, you cut in. "Got a moment, Colonel?"
"Orr?" Kazoo asked. "Make it quick, the Colonials are getting aggressive and they're leaking wide enough to hit my delivery trucks."
"How long can you hold there?" you asked, making it quick and dirty.
"Could be five minutes, could be five hours. I'm doing good on shirts, but the problem is 12.7mm and getting RPG shells. The fucks have armored cars, and it's making things tricky."
"Hold out as long as you can. I'm going to try to hold the beach open for the Marines."
"You're fucking what?!"
"They're down to pissing into the wind, I can't just leave-" you said, before a sonic shriek pierced your ears, making you rip the headset off. "Fuck!"
"Everything okay, General?" Pedro asked, looking back at you.
"We're getting jammed," you said, still wincing. "I'm going to talk to Kitsuragi again."
"Alright, General. Just, if the shells start falling, get back to the tank. It'll keep you safe, since it has the best armor of anything here."
"Alright," you said. From there, it was easy to get back into the bunker base, seeking out Kitsuragi again. True to her word, the persons on the walls had changed over- proof, at least, that she was serious about shift rotations.
"What is it, General?" the Lieutenant asked, frowning.
"I've got a lot of supply trucks that are going to need to go get supplies soon," you explained, taking a drag off your smoke. "You've got a lot of corpses here- and four hours is too long for you to not have them on hand. If we send them as cargo, we might be able to get them back before your second wave gets here."
Kitsuragi looked pained as she thought about it. "Are you sure that you can't get us shirts?"
"I'm an artillery officer, not a miracle worker here. This is the best I've got."
"Fucking… fine," Kitsuragi said, spitting on the dirt floor. "Give me a cig, I'll start putting a team together."
Taking a coffin nail out, you passed it over, and blinked when Kitsuragi drew a flat-topped Ronson-alike lighter. With a snapish flick, she had the cover brushed aside and the flame lit, guttering feebly in the dark of the bunker base. Putting the device back in her uniform coat, she shivered, cupping the smoke for warmth.
Walking away, you paced. This was quickly turning out to be a bad idea- intensified when a sergeant's trench whistle started pipping out a frantic tune- a beat to quarters.
"The fucking gunboats are coming back!" Kitsuragi snapped. "Everyone, battle stations! Anyone under a half load a' blood, start throwing corpses in trucks! Everyone else, get a gun and spread out in the trench lines! Repair Crew, pray to whatever gods are looking! Move people!"
Running outside, you started to hear the sound of a screaming shell. Climbing up the side of your King Spire, you barely got inside before the first shot fell. When it landed, you felt the digital brain of yours rattle in your head, and a faint coppery taste pervaded your mouth where you'd bit your tongue.
Pulling on your headset, regardless of the screeching, you frantically tuned into your answer loop as your driver tried to get you away from the bunker core- the obvious target of the shelling. Each shot sent fountains of dirt into the air, and you could hardly hear the screams of the radio from under the bombardment- and then, another sound. The bass growl and rumble of a building breaking.
"No! No!" you snapped, ordering the world to go back to what it had been. Pushing yourself up out of the hatch, you stared at the crater that was what remained of the Navy's abortive bunker base. "God damn it!" you swore. "Driver, move us up to the 64e!" you snapped, before changing your headset to A-set and repeating the order.
"Negative, General," the weedy voice of the forgotten driver came out. "Colonel's orders. The General must survive! Very certain of this."
"To hell with you!" you snapped. "At least get us close enough to cover the convoy out!"
"Then button up, for God's sakes!" Pedro shouted, turning around to bodily pull you back into the tank- and as you did, another shell landed, shrapnel ripping through the air and catching the tank's hatch hard enough to rip a spread of holes into it. A handful of ricochets fell on your helmet, the hot steel smoking as it fell about the tank. Pulling the hatch down with a rope, you hissed.
"I'd prefer if these were my guns," you groused, before the driver got you near your trucks. The shells were falling off, you thought. Things were slowly quieting, in a peaceful way- and then the thunder resumed. This was no rumble, though- this was the concentrated fire of a squadron. The guns fired once, twice, thrice, and stopped. You couldn't hear the scream of the shells yet, but that changed quickly as the onrushing horror came closer.
"Ah hell, they're coming for us," Pedro snapped. "Gun it, Thames!"
"Gunning it!" the driver yelled, pulling you ahead of the trucks for just a moment- and then hell fell. Your bell was rung again, as the shelling rocked the tank, your helmet knocked loose as you held onto the radio-set to stay upright. The tank was skewing to one side, a hellish grinding coming from the left side, before a barely-heard "fuck!" rang out and the tank flipped.
Then the next wave of shells came in, cratering the earth and ripping what was left of the tank's armor to shreds. As shrapnel punched through the bottom of the tank, you heard the now-familiar sound of someone's last breath as the driver couldn't take the hit, and then you heard it. If before it had been the roar of an oncoming train, now it was growing louder and louder, drowning out the engine and the screaming of the turret and the suspension. It was the loudest sound you ever heard- and like several times before, the last.
///
Death, you opined, should not be this fucking cold. Getting off the pure white floor, you blinked- you were missing some people. Normally, death was a lot of folks from the dead hex, in little puddles and piles, scattered all about in their white, featureless robes. Right now, though, you were alone.
"Been waiting for you to show up, little miss Goldilocks."
Correction- you weren't alone, and you weren't in the garb of the dead. Instead, you were in your full officer's uniform, medals you didn't recognize on your chest and your sabre at your side- but no gun, interestingly enough. Turning slowly to face the voice, you frowned as you saw the bald titan, metallic ports on his head advertising what, exactly, he was.
"So, this is what the fearsome Sundowner looks like in the flesh," you commented aggressively, trying to get your feet back under you.
"As if there's any flesh to go about this damn simulation," he cussed casually. "Still, I figure I can take some time out of my day to see how the ol' edumacational programs are going, and it's been a conga line of fucken shame after shame to see. Takes an Army puke to move the west side, and over here in the east the belle of the ball ends up with the tactical accumen of a frat boy on a week long bender."
"Sometimes bad decisions happen," you said, shrugging. "I don't have to explain myself to you."
That earned a snort, and Sundowner snapped his fingers. Falling, you felt a creeping pain dance up your fingers and toes, reaching deeper and deeper towards your heart as you tried not to scream. "On that point, you'd be mistaken, little miss Isabel Abigail Malenfant. You do answer to me."
"What-" you squeezed out through gritted teeth. "-is this?"
"I'm giving you a taste of the fun for what happened to the poor bastards who survived that artillery strike," Sundowner said, grinning. "Just a little hypothermia and frostbite. That Kayaba fellow did some amazing simulation work, tricking the brain into thinking you're freezing to death like this."
"They'll be back through to collect the corpses soon enough," you hissed.
"Then you won't mind cooling your heels until I hear an apology," Sundowner said, summoning a chair to plop himself in. His smirk was dark and evil, and you just stared a hateful stare. Still, though, the pain intensified, and as you watched your fingers grew cold, black, even necrotic as you failed to shift them.
It took everything you had to resist screaming, as the frost trickled up your arms, blue cold accenting blue blood, the virtual damage pushing you to the breaking point as you frantically held on to whatever you could to block out the pain. It was omnipresent, in the corner of your eyes and ears and mouth and nose, tongue no longer responding, eyes locked open and dead ahead at ten thousand meters distant. There, in the middle distance, you could see it- a way out.
"I see someone's finally found the way out," Sundowner said, rousing himself to come up next to you and adjust your arm straight out to point at that distance. "Apologize, and I'll tell you more."
With a spasm of your back, you fell, aimed well away from that. It took every thought you had, focusing on the words you wanted to say. "I.. choose… life."
"Ain't an apology, but I ain't making you fucks apolegetic anyway. If the lack of courtesy is a real issue later, I'll just whup your ass into it," Sundowner mused, making another hand gesture. The pain eased, slightly, and you found yourself able to move again, bit by bit. "So, Izzy. Got that teenage rebellion out of your system yet?"
"I'll be civil," you grumbled, working yourself unsteadily back to your feet.
"Good enough. Now, you're probably wondering why I called you here today," he said with a smile.
"Figured… it was the star," you muttered, tapping your kepi. "Play your game, win your prize."
"Close- that's why you're
first," Sundowner said, smirking. "It's been damn near half a year, Izzy. How you think the ol' meat-bag outside is holding up?"
A shot of terror, real terror, hit your heart. "Probably looks like shit, but still breathing," you said, lips pinched.
"Well, you ain't
wrong," Sundowner said, pulling a file out of his giant, cliche trenchcoat. "Course, you ain't
right either. Turns out, when both your folks are dead, the state tends to go to bottom bidder medical care."
That hit like a bullet to the chest. "What?"
"Oh yeah, your mamma and poppa? Bought the farm, kicked the bucket on the way out, and are currently pushing up the roses. Plane crash, kid. Terrible thing, ain't even in the schedule."
Now you fell to your knees, trying to keep from crying. The frostbite, the pain, that had been physical. Easier for it. This, this dug deep.
"Aw for fucks' sakes, you ain't like the other investments, right. Parents. Fucken hell," Sundowner grumbled. "Get over it, kid. You got more important fish to fry."
"I'm sorry, but there aren't many things more traumatic than loosing your parents," you snapped.
"How about a kidney, a lung, and both legs?"
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Remember that bottom-rung facility I mentioned?" Sundowner asked rhetorically. "Yeah, inner-city joint, so fucking bent I could use 'em as a worm screw. Turns out they were doing a brisk business on the side selling bits and bobs, and with the kids like you they didn't even need anesthetic. NerveGear's real handy like that, you know."
"That doesn't explain the legs," you muttered.
"Yeah, those are on me," Sundowner admitted casually. "They ended up shot through with pressure wounds, so my doctors advised taking 'em off. Nasty stuff, think some were gangrenous. Was useful for patching in some new smells, though- not that the kiddies will thank you!"
"So why are you telling me this," you asked, trying to make sense of all this. "It can't be just to gloat."
"The gloating is nice, but nah. This is a
job offer."
You were gobsmacked, and for the second time in this conversation. Still, now that you weren't literally freezing to second death, you could rebound. "What are your terms?"
"World Marshal, my personal private military contractor, has some staffing issues. I can pick up trigger pullers, accountants, and general officers in job lots, but it doesn't exactly mean I've got a way to put 'em together in a way that works well. Had a few crises of staffing, and since business is booming I gotta get on top of that."
"So you need NCOs, and low-level officers," you summized, trying to hold back the veritable tide of distaste.
"Close enough, considering you ain't read in yet. Now, while I'm not a charitable individual, I do think I can cut a mutually beneficial deal. Pick a part for me to replace, and I'll do a little cyborg magic to get it into shape. In return, you work for me long enough to pay it off- at free market rates, 5% interest, all set from day of instillation. In addition," Sundowner said, smirking, "I'll throw in a few bennies to help you get out of this little game."
"How much are we looking at, salary-wise?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Hundred and twenty grand a year- all going straight into taxes and funds owed, plus bennies. Full ride company medical, and the World Marshal Visa Card for expenses. You
will have those, by the way. Get used to 'em."
"Vacation time?"
"Four weeks, but only if you can schedule it. Considering how active our deployment schedules are, you might need to take payout."
You had to burry the shudders, the active shudders, of distaste deep in your soul. God, this hurt. You were literally selling yourself, piece by piece, to this madcap bastard. The why was set in your mind already- better you do this and buy the rest a chance to get out of the game, than anything else. It was a sacrifice- just give a bit of yourself up, and the rest would work itself out. As a satirical piece of Johnny Cash ran through your mind, you faked deciding on the issue, before issuing a definitive nod.
I built her one piece at a time, and it didn't cost me a dime…
"Deal," you said. "Now, what are those bennies?"
"Well, first things first, the 'ol cheatsy respawn token," Sundowner said, with a predatory smile. "They're for the lung transplant. Just write in someone's four-digit serial down on these, drop 'em off, and they'll respawn like nothing ever happened. Great if your little tanker-boy happens to get buried behind enemy lines, you know?"
"And the rest?" you asked. "I am on a time limit here, and I don't want to get pulled away by a respawn."
"Hah! As bad as you fucked up, it'll be a day or two before they find your corpse," Sundowner jeered. "Option two, for the kidney, is a few secrets on life, death, and respawns- including the great big button 'o doom you saw in your fit of dumb-ass back there. It'll be a fun conversation explaining how you figured it out if you want to share, but not my problem."
You nodded- God, that was precious information. With that, you could make so many people do whatever you wanted- if you were willing to risk the news you'd actually gotten to see behind the curtain getting out.
"Finally, option three, for the big ticket item called 'two whole-ass legs', we have the secret on how to get into the good shit in Relic Vaults, as well as some other tidbits of information on the things. While you might have given Ivanov some cheap bits that Japanese femboy dug out of the ground, there's more to those things than meets the eye. A lot of love went into 'em, and it'd be a crying shame if all that kit just sat around getting unloved. That, and an important tidbit about the motherload in Marban's Hollow"
"Alright," you said. "Can I take a moment to think?"
"You got ten minutes, Izzy. Get thinking."
///
Votes
Choose one
[] Prosthetic Kidney: $1,000,000 market value, est. 8.5-9 years to pay off. Information on "life, death, and respawns" which also covers permanent death casualties.
[] Prosthetic Lung: $300,000 market value, est. 2.5-3 years to pay off. Gives 1x 20-pack of blank dog tags, to allow respawn of persons who have dog tags MIA.
[] Prosthetic Legs: $4,000,000 market value, est. 33.5-40 years to pay off. Gives information on Relic Vaults, including how to open the deeper doors and information on "the motherload in Marban's Hollow"
(AN: to those asking
why the legs are the most expensive option, if you look at Revengance and any of Raiden's fancy shit? Yeah, the legs are the same kind he's got, plus a lot of the other body mods so you can actually use those thunder thighs in more than first gear. Sundowner be setting you up with the
good shit.)
