Situation Foxtrot (SAO/Foxhole) [COMPLETE]

It wasn't long before the dance floor was cleared, and the band shuffled out as the dining tables were set up. Proper tables, five-legged with stiff supports, were brought out in droves, while servers brought in scores of warming carts with food. Your mouth was watering at the smell, and as the tables bustled you struggled to keep a clear head about yourself. As the shuffle started, you made a snap decision, breaking off from Tymur's group to integrate in closer to the Band of the Red Hand's own high table.

Soon enough, you were pulling up a chair, the first course coming out of the dishing station with a snappy flair of white-shirted waiters as the wine team came around like clockwork. You hadn't had a ton of hideously involved meals like this before, but Mama had taught you the basics: outside in on the dining equipment, drink your wine slowly, and most importantly don't try to jump the gun. Soon enough, you were staring down a glass of some game-blended merlot and a surprisingly rich squash soup that smelled heavily of cinnamon and clove, as well as a heavyset roll to serve with.

"Leaning into the Christmas spirit, Cauthon?" you asked with a raised eyebrow. Your nominal equal, sitting across the round banquet table, just shrugged amicably.

"Blame Colonel Lon," he said with a light shrug. "I trust the old man to come up with a suitable menu, and he's the one who found the cooks."

"Blame is hardly the word I'd use," you countered lightly, taking a sniff and a sip of the merlot. It didn't fight, but the mix was too sharp for you to truly enjoy. For all your sins, you'd picked up a taste for pinot gris, and this was a far cry from the whites you liked. "I just didn't expect such nostalgia."

"Nostalgia?" another at the table, Col. Bujold, muttered. "Well, I would agree in the general, though I haven't the foggiest how you found it."

"Add a pinch of nutmeg, and this is pumpkin spice soup."

"And here I wondered why it tasted familiar!"

You smiled, and Cauthon raised an eyebrow. It seemed the Band of the Red Hand wasn't just his show- he had a backer, or possibly backers plural.

The soups passed soundly, and a few minutes later the salads came. Instead of being lettuce-based, these were a cucumber salad: a nice choice in your eyes. It wasn't long after it was served that Bujold looked over to you, before gesturing over at a hitherto-unintroduced guest- a patch-haired fellow of middle age, with wire-rimmed spectacles and a thinner voice.

"General Orr, might I introduce Colonel Beauchamp?"

You nodded benignly, letting a server take your empty salad plate. "I'm charmed. Any particular branch, Colonel?"

"Artillery, ma'am- and I was wondering about a little professional discussion. How have you been having such success with your guns? Ours, ah, tend to be a high mortality position."

That earned you a little snort. "How are you fighting them? Because, and I mean this as gently as possible, artillery is a high mortality job. We average a lot of casualties on our gun crews."

"Generally, the infantry line has dugouts for our guns."

"What ranges?"

"Generally two hundred to four hundred meters."

You nodded sagely. "There's your issue, then. You're running them too conservatively."

"Pardon?"

"The 15e is a flying artillery unit. Doctrinally, we unlimber the guns at around one-seventy meters, although most of the gunners prefer one-fifty, and then each truck's crew get to work expending the entire ammunition supply of the gun as fast as possible. If you stand back, the Colonial artillery can find you, before they start putting shrapnel bombs down your shirt- or worse, mass gas barrages."

"I understand, but we're a line artillery unit- and, for all the casualties, it isn't hard to keep the guns going constantly."

"You have to ask yourself, though, 'what is worth the engagement cost of the 40mm gun?' and 'can I reposition to handle extant threats' with that stratagem," you replied. "It's not a bad strategy- there's a lot of times where the costs are worth it!- but the 40mm gun is the most powerful bunker breaker we have in our collective arsenal. If you need field suppression, the 120mm howitzers are a much better weapon."

"We've been having good luck with the howitzers, but their logistics dependencies are grating," Beauchamp muttered, rubbing his forehead with an air of annoyance. "The fact we have to have people shoulder-hump the shells is a continual problem, as well as the fact our ready racks are pathetically small."

"Ready racks?" you asked, blinking.

"Yeah, if you've got a Heavy Ammo uniform on, then the standard storage box builds as a 150mm ammunition ready rack for five shells."

"I'll remember that!" you said, smiling.

After that, a fish course came around- a cod-based fish cake if you didn't miss your guess, peppered through with savory herbs and a slightly sharp cheese melted to the top. It was delectable, served with some flavor of yum-yum sauce that Asuna would probably be willing to duel the other chef over to get the recipe for. Either way, it was paired with a good Riesling, and you were happy to let the tart wine play with the fish savor.

"Putting aside the altercation earlier," you asked, leaning in, "I've been wondering, General Cauthon- you're bound to have a few tidbits about how you got your hands on this place."

"I don't know, Orr," Cauthon said, minding his wine glass carefully. "It doesn't hold much a candle to your record- especially considering how much more support I had, with the Old Man in the back."

"You cleared a hex- and they're not fighting hard for what's left of it. I kicked over a victory point and punched out a bunt."

"While covering for the, ah," here Cauthon paused, subtly checking with his officers to make sure Hooker was well away from here, "the least illustrious of our number."

"Presumably you're talking about the damnable prostitute," you joked.

"I highly doubt anyone'd want to tap that," Bujold muttered.

Cauthon shook his head. "A lot of the more ambitious players are named after officers, real or fictional."

"I've read enough fantasy to recognize most of them, Matrim," you said with a raised eyebrow. "But you'll need to walk me through General Blow over there."

"Joe Hooker, US Civil War," Cauthon said simply. "Lead the Army of the Potomac for a while until Lee did an end run around him, served decently as a corps commander until he got backbenched. Fairly obscure of a pick, being honest."

"You know that?"

"It came up in Military Theory class."

Shaking your head, you grinned. "That doesn't change you having some stories to tell about how you took the hex, though."

"Oh, he's got stories," Beuachamp said, rolling his eyes. "And my artillery corps is the butt of most of them."

"I barely had any NCOs to give you, of course things went sideways faster than a Marine walking out of a bar in Okinawa," Cauthon snapped.

"Mat, we blasted your command tank in the ass. Twice."

Leaning forward, you looked at Beauchamp incredulously. "You have to be shitting me."

"I wish!" Beauchamp laughed. "But at night, these thick fogs tend to roll in off the water, and it gets hard to see. So one of my gun crews sees a pair of headlamps backing up towards the line, and a machine gun crew opens up.

"You might as well tell the story right," Cauthon grumbled. "Most of my Regimental leaders aren't that used to command yet, so they keep getting stuck in too deep and can't pull out."

"A problem I've had on occasion," you said, making Bujold spill his drink laughing.

"So either way, what generally ended up happening is I'd take a King Spire to the front, yell at the regiment how everything behind them was going, some basics of attacking, and then fall back to the previous line at night," Cauthon explained, "except generally the driver would take the road in reverse in case they got cheeky with tankettes- which they did that night."

"The machine gunners were firing on a target about a hundred meters further out and three hundred meters slant, I don't know how the gunners got the idea they were firing at Mat's tank," Beauchamp said, smiling, "but the gun captain was quick as a whistle- he got his shell right into the drive wheel on the King Spire, before the infantry behind them jumped into the revet to club the idiots before they did it again!"

"To the joys of the inexperienced," Bujold said, raising his wine glass in a mocking toast.

"Here here!"

Finally, the main course came out: a beautiful prime rib, served over roasted potatoes, parsnips, and carrots. Several other vegetables danced along with it, and the wine was back to red with a cabernet sauvignon paired with the wonderful meat. Mashed yams and sweat peas were but two of the sides you saw, while stewed french beans graced other tables and mushrooms stuffed gently with a sprinkle of mozzarella also played their way across the table.

It might have taken two glasses of wine to work your way through the main course, but by God, you'd savor every bite. The conversation had been strangled by the food, left for dead in the gutter, and you couldn't care less as you enjoyed the meal.

Finally, as a cleanser of bread and apple slices went around, you looked over at Cauthon. "So, who's the Old Man?"

"Colonel James Scazetti, and more importantly for this discussion, my father-in-law," Cauthon said with a mild sigh. "I introduced him to full dive gaming after he lost his leg and decided to retire, hoping it would keep him out of my hair. No dice."

"Oh? Must be a shame to retire from that. What did he do?"

"He was a colonel in the Army."

You blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah. He ran the 2nd Strykers BCT for the Fourth Infantry Division. That caused a lot of problems, considering I'm an cavalry officer-"

"As in serving?"

"Yes."

"Well, fuck," you muttered, rocking back in your chair.

"In real life, I'm just a captain," Cauthon grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Which, honestly, is about all I need to be, since a regiment here is about a company's worth of dudes IRL unless you get one of the really big outfits like the Eleventh."

"Having worked with them, I'd recommend sticking to the smaller units," you suggested wryly.

"So noted. Either way, the Old Man is kicking the backline logistics into shape as fast as he can, while I rip and tear down the front so we can unpack Cuttail and get actual useful lines up for when the inevitable counteroffensive hits."

There was another lull as the cheese selections came around, and you just let out a small smile as your wine was changed back to a nice chenin blanc. Taking a share and swirling your wine glass, you raised an eyebrow at Cauthon.

"Enough about you and your merry band, though- I'm sure you'd like to hear of my side of the war, without the rumors my radio operators keep sharing mixed in."

"Such as your Homeric romances?" Bujold asked with a smirk.

You smiled, the expression not meeting your eyes. "Or the fact it took only three days to play with Weathering Halls before I rode in to seize it."

"That has to be an exaggeration-" Beauchamp said, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Not at all. It was a textbook border hop, straight through the sloppiest concrete you ever did see."

Coughing, Cauthon stole your attention. "Actually, how did you do that? We didn't have tanks yet, at that point."

"Except we did have tanks," you explained, tapping the table. "There's Relic Vaults in the game, where 'armaments of the past' are hidden, and we found one and looted it to the bone for those. An entire tank regiment in mothballs, and I gave it to Zairman and he rammed it through their damn eye."

"...you're serious," Cauthon muttered.

"So strike me if I lie," you said. "I'll talk to Zairman later and see if we can get some photos of one so you can put it next to the petting zoo, or maybe trade one: they're not comfortable rides."

"What did they have?" Bujold asked, leaning forward.

"A short forty- like the Beauceron- with a gunner and loader, the commander, and the driver. They weren't good tanks, but they were tough."

"Tough would have been damn handy, beating our way down the peninsula," Cauthon muttered angrily. "I'll get the One-oh-Eight Commando on it."

A few soothing words from one of the others at the table defused things long enough for things to keep moving. Soon enough, it was time for sorbet, and then pie, while the mignardise was brought out and the tables cleared. Looking over at the orchestra coming in- much larger than the before-dinner crowd!- you shot Cauthon a look.

"Let's get this meeting over with," you muttered, pointing towards the outside of the town hall. It didn't take long for Cauthon to lead you to a bunker base, before a pair of soldiers practically dragged in a mildly soused Hooker. Now, you'd had a few- maybe five?- glasses of wine, so you weren't a pillar of sobriety yourself, but Hooker was having trouble standing.

"I should have expected this," Cauthon muttered. "Either way, I wanted to get some time to talk to you two, since we're now, collectively, the three most important people in the game."

"Then we probably should have done that before the drinking started," you said wryly, finding a pair of chairs to plop yourself and Cauthon in. Hooker got to stay standing, leaning up on the wall of the bunker. "Shoo out the extra ears, Cauthon- if you want this talk, we'll be keeping it private."

"Fortunately, I agree with you," Cauthon grumbled, sticking his head out the door to yell at a few lingering NCOs. "Now, let's get down to business."

"Which business?" you asked.

"The business of getting out of here, because the Old Man actually has a plan."

"Let's hear it, then."


Getting a map out of another room, Cauthon spread it on the floor between you two. "Deadlands is the crux of the map. With the Mass Production Factory there and the refinery in Callahan's Passage connected by rail, we'd be able to cut out the majority of the backlines bullshit that's been plaguing everyone's supply issues, and use the new excess of materiel to reduce casualties in the advances."

"Sounds like you've got a plan," you said lightly, tapping the map gently. "There's a problem, though."

"Oh, there's several. But that's the goal, and we always need to plan for a goal."

"Then what's the planning to back it up?"

At that point, Hooker chose to make himself known. "Bah. Don't worry about it. If the dev console is still there-"

"The what," you hissed like a snake.

"The dev console. Every VP should have had one, in case the GMs need something."

"Are you implying you worked on this fucking hellhole?" Cauthon snapped. "The players would lynch you!"

"An' they'd have every fucken reason, yeah, I know," Hooker grumbled. "Happened when I helped dev Sword Art Online."

"I might lynch you, to be honest," you growled. "Between your shitty generalship and this, it'd be justified."

"Which is why I didn't bother staying dry. 'S not worth it. Draw me a section of front, I'll sit on it, you two play the hero. See if it's easier to sleep after that."

"Oh fuck off!" you snapped. "Nobody forced your hand to lead- now either buck up or bow out!"

"I will, if Cauthon doesn't mind."

A moment of silence passed, and Cauthon nodded. Sighing, Hooker started wandering out. "If there's any VP that has an operational dev console, it'll be in Deadlands. Orr, I know you hate me, but if you give me Kirito and a week's notice we might be able to jailbreak an outside access link or something into this game."

"That just makes Deadlands more critical," Cauthon hissed. "I knew we needed it before, but now it's been moved up to a long term campaign to an immediate need."

"Don't singe your balls trying to piss this fire out," you warned, pulling out a hex map for Deadlands. "They can bridge the river to the west, and the east is wide open. Add in that river south for naval resupply, and God himself would have trouble kicking the door in. It's a refinery town, too, which means every square meter will be fortified."

"It's two bridges in and out, and a storage depot though- not a seaport. They could very well get overwhelmed."

You looked at the man like he'd gone mad. "Are you- are you suggesting I lend my brigade to this lunacy?"

"Not yet, no," he demured. "I need to do recon, you need to capture Foxcatcher, and we both need to come up with plans. Real plans."

"Getting me in won't be cheap, but I'll consider it."

"You've been having issues getting enough infantry, right? If you need me to, I can have my commissars round you up a regiment of foot."

"Excuse me?"

Cauthon chuckled. "This game uses the stupidest language: your brigade's commissar slots are for recruitment and training new units, not ensuring political obedience. I use them as my training cadre to help stiffen up the newer regiments, and to have a back line of communication in case the commanders go off the reservation."

"Which is where the memetic BLAM comes in, I presume?"

Cauthon had the grace to look guilty. "I never gave orders, but there have been some field demotions to extra equipment in certain extreme cases."

"Good to know," you groused. "Well. If this goes through, we'll see what happens."

"Yeah. I'm done here, but I figured we probably won't have many chances to meet like this. If you've got anything you want to tell me with any certainty there's no interlopers, now is the time."

Your breath hitched. "You said you were Army, right?"

"Yeah, I'm in charge of a mechanized infantry company."

"What do you know about Sundowner? In a professional capacity, I mean."

"I know that if I'd know that motherfucker would stick his dick in this, I'd be legally barred from touching it," Cauthon spat. "His little band of merry men has been a goddamn menace on the world. He's worked for the Iranians in destabilizing Iraq, has a long history of stirring up the Caucuses, has a standing god damn army in South Africa, leaked several terabytes of data to the Chinese out of the Canadian nuclear problem, and we know he's been supplying arms to Central American juntas in the pockets of the megacorps. The minute there's a Democrat president he'll be run out of the country faster than you can rip a line of cocaine off his shiny fucking skull."

"Glad we agree on that," you muttered, leaning back. "Can you keep a secret?"

"In this game? Yeah. Outside it? No. If I have to tell Uncle Sam something, I will."

"At least you're honest about it," you muttered, shooting him half a smile. "Thanks for that."

"Any reason you asked?"

"Yes."

////

Vote

[] Tell Cauthon you've been hired by Sundowner in exchange for your health care.
[] Tell Cauthon the operational mechanics of the permadeath system, and what you had to sell for the information
[] Tell Cauthon about the secret win/victory condition by capturing Kayaba, and how you learned about it.
[] Tell Cauthon nothing- you can't trust him, and by extension the US Department of Defense, with these secrets.

Looking Cauthon dead in the eye, you weighed the pros and cons of what you were about to let slip, before throwing it all to the wind.

"I learned how the permadeath system works," you said, a slight frown coming across your face. "A little bit of how the enemy AI works too, but that's not as important right now."

"How's it work, then?" Cauthon asked.

"Not going to ask me how I got it?"

"Some information is better than no information. I can worry about the rest later."

"Right," you muttered. "Starting off, the limits are a lot more relaxed than we initially thought. Currently, it's thirty days to the minute of death before someone bites the dust. 720 hours to be precise. However, there's a catch. We only get four and a half thousand hours time dead total, before we get flushed totally- and I think that time limit would override the 720 hour rule."

"That's what, a hundred and seventy days?"

"One eighty seven and a half."

Cauthon swore. "Fuck. Piss. Well, what's done is done, and I've been drilling everyone on corpse recovery. We'll have to re-sweep most of the hex, though, since we've still got some time before the dog tags despawn and the people die."

"I've been doing the same for offensive maneuvers," you muttered. "It is a pain."

"It's weird, how the most important information is the smallest in size. Two numbers, and some context."

"Yeah. The rest isn't as important."

"Nah," Cauthon said, staring you right through your blue eyes and out the back of your skull. "The rest is pretty fucking important."

"Okay," you said quietly, "but you have to promise to believe me. It's a bit of a story."

"Work with me, I've heard enough Specialists try and talk their way out of drunk driving tickets to know fantasy when I see it."

"I'm a ward of the state," you said, abridging the story slightly. "When they put me in the hospital on life support, they didn't send me to a good one. Apparently, the thought of a patient on free anesthetic they could work with was too much temptation, so they decided I'd make a pretty good parts doner. When I hit General, Sundowner got interested to see who'd done so well at his little torture, and found out."

"The only thing that would make this more trite is if he came at the crossroads offering you a few blues guitar licks," Cauthon snarked.

"No, but he was offering replacement bits. I've got a mechanical kidney now- hypothetically speaking."

"He wouldn't hand that out for free- what's the catch?"

"I have to work for him to pay off the debt. Direct employee, no contractor bullshit."

Cauthon rocked back. "That's a hell of a catch."

"You're telling me!"

"I can see why you were asking if I could keep secrets, now," Cauthon muttered. "I won't volunteer specifics, but I have to tell my superiors that this was being used as a way to press-gang people into working for that fucker."

"I'm fine with that."

"Good. God, I hope this doesn't make us enemies when we get out of this," Cauthon said, wiping his face. "Go back, enjoy the party. I'll announce preparations for the Deadlands offensive, but it's practically going to be after we finish up Linn of Mercy. You've got time to decide whether you're with me or not for that."

"I will. Thanks for not being a cunt about all this, Cauthon."

"You can call me Mat, not like I mind much."

"Then I'm Melanie."

///

The inside of the hall was still bustling, digestifs being served as the dance floor was re-established. The band was looking hot to trot, and as you re-found your little brigade, Loup grabbed your arm and started hauling you away.

"Melanie-" she hissed, dragging you towards the door. Digging in your heels for a moment, you snatched a drink off a waiter's tray, the glass of port holding down your nerves as your intimate friend pulled you into the snow. "What was that! With Cauthon!"

"We were discussing things that are best left private," you explained, raising an eyebrow. "Is something the matter?"

"He's engaged, for God's sakes!"

"Married, according to him."

"That doesn't make it better! You can't just seduce your way into whatever you need!"

You recoiled, as if struck. "What?"

"I saw that on the dance floor. It should have been obvious," Loup muttered, bitterly. "Secure what you need for your force, first and foremost. You needed prototype tech, so you came to me. You need to keep your armor regiment, you play Zairman like a fiddle. Now you need an ablative reserve- and what do I suppose you've been doing with Cauthon?"

"Absolutely nothing is what I did," you hissed. "Loup, this isn't like you- what's wrong?"

"What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong, Melanie!" Loup nearly screamed. "I just had a thirteen year old girl tell me she would do anything because I accidentally killed her gender dysphoria after two weeks in my unit!"

"Well that explains you two making out," you said, frowning. "When did you figure out she was thirteen?"

"About ten minutes ago!"

You winced. "Yeah, uh, that's a problem," you muttered. "Can we table the 'why are you seducing everyone' bits for a minute?"

"No, no we cannot."

"Fuck," you muttered.

"A pretty apt word to describe the mess, yes," Loup muttered. "Seriously, if you just talked to me about it, I wouldn't be mad! But you didn't. You just went charging in!"

"I didn't think we were serious!" you finally snapped, trying not to visibly loose your temper and failing miserably. "We're friends, we work together, sometimes we fuck, there you go! Does it need to be more complicated than that?"

"Complicated? Hah! Just gonna drift in and out of my life like a beacon of hope and horny, then? No, Orr, what I want is a shred of commitment, so I don't have to worry about my regiment or my family or the little girl that's decided to hang off my coat-tails because that's the best place for her to be right now!"

You hissed. Those words hurt. "Loup-"

"Go, dance with your tanker-boy. I'm going home. Come back to Great Warden Dam when you're willing to talk, and maybe we'll have something left of this relationship."

"Loup!"

"Goodbye, Orr."

And with that, she walked off.

"God damn it!" you snarled, stamping a foot in the snow and wishing you could shoot something. "God fucking damn it!"

"Troubles in love?" a familiar voice asked, revealing Hooker leering out of the door with a crooked, drunken smirk.

"Go deepthroat a bayonet you useless waste of a uniform."

"You know what's wrong with you, Orr? You're chicken. You've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, 'OK, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness. You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing. You're terrified somebody is going to stick you in a cage. Well, baby—you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or on the East by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself."

As Hooker finished his little diatribe, you decided his dinner wouldn't be complete without a little knuckle sandwich to keep him full. It only took one good hit to tap his lights out, and as he slumped into the snow you looked at one of the impassive gate guards.

"Poor man must have had too much to drink," the gate guard said. "We'll handle it, ma'am."

"Quite."

Heading back into the hall, you sighed, shucking snow off your shoes before you headed back in. The dance now was some fast, modern number you didn't get, so you just drank your port and watched with a scowl. All was fair in love and war, so why the fuck did you keep getting bodied by it? Slowly, though, your mood lightened as the music took some weight off your shoulders. The port helped, a sweet wine something you quietly fancied when your mother-

-no, Isabel, don't think about Mom right now.

Setting the glass down, you went to the press of bodies, seeking out Tymur. He was easy enough to find, once again obvious to your approach until you snaked an arm around his waist, that selfsame arm's hand sneaking its way into his other as you smirked brightly. The young woman- some flavor of specialist, perhaps a medic or sustainment chief- he was talking to clammed up and started moving away, which was just fine. You were feeling, well, territorial right now. An ugly look considering the conversation you'd just had, but your libations had reached the point where good sense was second to the art of going forth and staking your claim.

Yes, it had finally happened. You'd gotten drunk enough to let your inner party animal out.

Snatching a pair of flutes of clouded liquor, you had to resist the urge to laugh as you passed one off to Tymur. Death in the Afternoon wasn't what you expected to be drinking right now. Still, you enjoyed the bite of the wormwood cocktail, and judging by Tymur's face it was a pleasant surprise to him as well.



"I believe this next dance is ours," Tymur said with a smirk, his eyes flashing in the gaslamps of the town hall.

"Then let's get to it," you murmured, returning the gesture with a sultry gaze of your own. As you strutted out to the dance floor, the last notes of The Ballad of Buck Ravers drifting away, most of the area was cleared. Not a lot of people were sure how they wanted to dance to this one. Fortunately, you had a plan.

What most people forgot- or more accurately, never learned- was that ballroom tango, like literally everything else made for "ballroom" performances, was a load of horse-shit if you needed to cram up a dance floor. Practically, a tango was very similar to a waltz: closed form, tight in to the partner (or as tight as intimacy preferred), and based on a lead-and-follow pattern.

"American tango, or the real thing?" you asked quickly, as the band got ready to strike it off.

"There's an American version?"

"Perfect."

You might not be a trained dancer, but you did know some theory at least- including, from your friend Anne-Marie, that the American tango was danced at 120 beats per minute because apparently if you couldn't sleep through the damn thing the hamburgers weren't happy with it.

Then the piano started, and you were off. Two runs of eight-step basics made sure that both you were reasonably familiar with each other's step, and then it was time for the fancy stuff. Trusting in that iron-like arm around your back, you somehow signaled it was time for the conte- an almost-dip that looked more complicated than it was. The only problem was that it involved you sliding a leg between your partners: normally not a problem, but as tight as you were on Tymur it was quickly hip-to-hip. It was a little gratifying to know your partner would be pitching a tent if this was real life, though.

A quick check down revealed the front of Tymur's slacks were unmarred though, which raised questions about what the fuck this game had programmed in it you'd try and figure out approximately never.

Either way, the contes were successful, and quickly you were mixing it up with all sorts of adornments. Little tricks of the feet were most of it: a playful run over the leg, the occasional cross-over step, trying to trap each other's legs. Small things, which very quickly became bigger and bigger as they mixed into the rest of the steps. A quick set of open circles to dodge another set of dancers turned tricksy as teasing feet kept you from moving, until you retaliated with a leg swing over as Tymur went for a full dip, forcing him to hold you up as you used him as a lever of support.

That one, rightfully, earned a few wolf whistles. You were whirling and twirling like sex on the dance floor, without a care in the world. Let the devil take the hindmost: for once in this thrice-damn death game, you were having fun. No responsibility, no worries or fears. Just you, your partner, and the magic of the dance.

Of course, all good things had to come to an end eventually. The song ended, you retreated the floor, and the fire that had been filling you slowly guttered out. Tymur was much the same, visibly worn from the wringer you'd put him through- but a dopey smile still lined his face anyway.

"Is there anything else we need to do here?" he finally asked you, still holding your hand.

"I don't believe so."

"Then I believe it is our cue to leave. I'm dead on my feet."

"Me too."

///



It was close to two in the morning when you finally got back to the 62e's base in Reaching Trail, and you were tired. You were so tired. So, incredibly tired. Yet, when you pulled in and started escorting-stumbling with Tymur back to his quarters, a sliver of maniac energy started to fill your mind. It was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea.

Still, you signaled a young man to bring a coffee course. As the drinks arrived, you made sure the door to Tymur's rooms was closed- and for good measure, you propped A Caovish Reminder under the handle to ensure it would stay closed. Sitting on his bed, drinking his coffee, Tymur just blinked at you.

"Melanie?"

"I've been thinking," you admitted, drinking your coffee too fast, before coming over to sit next to Tymur.

"Dangerous, but an occupational hazard for us officers."

"Quite," you muttered, "but this is for something different."

"Oh?"

You sighed. "You know those rumors that I've been fucking my way through this game?"

"They're inescapable, yes. I'm still surprised you haven't bombarded that damn newspaper's office into rubble yet," Tymur said, starting to undo the hair ties he'd used to contain his black locks for the event. "If you want, I'm sure Galina Company would be happy to make your point for you."

"That won't fix it; I'm fairly sure half the reason for that garbage is because the radio operators need something to gossip about."

"It's still dishonorable."

"Oh, who gives a damn about honor?" you asked, rolling your head back to shake loose your own masses of hair. "You know I'm hardly chaste, and at this point, I'm tired of pretending otherwise. I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."

Tymur's jaw dropped. "Are you saying-"

"Yes, yes I am. Well, if you're interested, that is," you muttered, looking down at your still painfully slim form. Some girls got hit by puberty like a truck; while your experience was more a casual ship passing in the night with a friendly wave. "I won't try and coerce you into it."

"Melanie. I'd have to be a fool to say no."

You smiled, before starting to slip out of your uniform. "I know I'm not the prettiest girl in the game-"

That was as far as you got before Tymur claimed your lips with his own. It wasn't hungry, it wasn't fumbling, it wasn't confident. It was a message- don't degrade yourself for this. "You looked beautiful tonight," Tymur muttered. "You always do."

That earned a smile, and a little more work to shimmy out of your clothes. "Same to you, Tymur," you muttered. "Let's see if you can handle a woman as well as you handle your tanks."

"By that standard, expect to get crashed into the wall a few times," Tymur quipped. "Since that's how my first time driving a tank went."

You blinked. "This is your first time?"

"Yeah. I told you I was a virgin- did you not believe me?"

You made a silly little grin. "Yeah, but- well- oh, hell. That's gonna make this fun."

Rolling his eyes, Tymur just leaned in to nip at your collarbone. "I'm not clueless."

"Is that an invitation to do anything I want?" you whispered sultrily.

After a moment of indecision, Tymur nodded. "As long as you're gentle about it."

"Don't worry, I like taking care of my partners," you said with a chuckle. "Just pay attention- because if you blink, you'll miss it."

///

The next day, when you finally got back to your bunker base, everything was good. The guns were quiet, the builders were building, the kitchen was buzzing. As you went to grab a sandwich with a yawn and a smile, Asuna looked at you, coughing loudly. Turning to face her, you cocked your head inquisitively- until you saw the newspaper, with a headline shot of you getting dipped mid-tango where you couldn't see where your body ended and Tymur's began.

GOLDEN GHOST STEALING HEARTS AND SOULS: SAVIOR OR SUCCUBUS?

Damnit.

////
STANDARD VOTE TIME YOU KNOW HOW IT WORKS BY NOW


BUNKER
(Choose One Two)
[] Expand your bunker base with additional infrastructure to sustain larger troop numbers.
[] Expand your bunker base with Defensive Patterns (Requires techniques, vote to begin development)
-[] With small patterns (x24 to go to New Base Completion)
-[] With medium patterns (x17 to go to New Base Completion)
-[] With heavy patterns (x4 to go to New Base Completion)
-[] With artillery firing positions
-[] With infantry fighting positions
-[] With Modernist patterns (x4 to go to New Base Completion)
[] Begin developing Concrete (Write-in base to begin concrete development on)
[] Develop a new bunker base in a better location
-[] Write in hex and town/Relic, as well as distance to front line or intended purpose.
[] Get your builders to stop expanding the base for now.
[] Gift, Assign, or Abandon a bunker base.
-[] Write-in base by location.
[] Begin design for a new, planned base.(Architect is busy!)
[] You don't need to build right now: put that time and manpower into the Brigade functions! (Grants one Brigade action)
[] Begin building temporary siegeworks to interdict a position or route.


PERSONNEL
(Choose One Two)
[] Go and recruit more personnel
-[] Mass recruitment: whatever you can get, get more of it! (Recruits 4d10+4 White personnel)
-[] Selective recruitment: Look for people who aren't clueless. The Logistics Union has a lot of folks. (Recruits 3d10+3 Green personnel)
-[] Picky recruitment: Get people who are at least as skilled as you are! (Recruits 2d10+2 Yellow personnel)
-[] Frontline recruitment: Go to the front and snag some blueberries! (Recruits 1d10+1 Orange personnel)
-[] Elite recruitment: Go find a group of lunatics, and shanghai them. (Recruits 1d10 Red personnel)
(You cannot recruit units of higher rating than yourself.)
[] Commit training!
-[] Vehicle training: Teach everyone drive good. Car goes on right hand side of road, revolutionary concept. Might as well also learn to drive a flatbed, or your Drummond if you're feeling nice.
-[] Rifle training: Everyone will spend time practicing the fine art of "bullet go plink"
-[] Administration Training: Basic delegation has been mastered, but the more officers you have the more the parts move. Therefore, figuring out how to grease the gears is important.
-[] Infantry Training: You've spent some time on the front, it sucks. Get better so it sucks less.
-[] Mobile Warfare Training: You know how to fight out of a truck bed. Now it's time to get good at that.
-[] Artillery Training: It is time to actually learn what the limitations of these guns are. It'll be expensive, but you need to know to keep mistakes from happening.
-[] Combat Vehicle Training: Your people know how to drive trucks and push guns, but the sort of work and operations needed to utilize an armored car or tank is completely outside your wheelhouse. Get some domestic tankers ready- you'll need them if you ever use armored contingents or self-propelled guns.
[] Extra work shifts
-[] More Scroop: Get everyone to do more rounds of scrooping at the scrap fields. You do your part, and more importantly, can use the B-mats to get useful stuff like more trucks or dedicated equipment.
-[] More Mines: Get everyone to do more rounds on the component mines and oil wells. Components mean R-mats, R-mats mean flatbeds, and more importantly: trains
-[] More Building: Put everyone to work on getting your bunker upgrades planned. If you don't have some planned, the bunker will get what the troops think it needs.
-[] Frontline Support: Put your people in the trenches on secondary duties: terminal logistics, machine guns, fortification, and other 'mostly safe' jobs to stiffen them up.
[] Begin operational planning for Something Big
-[] Inform a Regimental or Brigade Officer about your mission from Sundowner, and enlist them in helping to ferret out the identity of Kayaba.
--[] Write-in the name of the officer in question.
-[] Write-in Something Big.
[] Begin Operation Planning (+1 to all rolls when the next operation starts)
[] You have enough spare brain cells in this department: put some time and manpower into the Brigade functions! (Grants one Brigade action)


UPGRADES
(Choose One Two Three!)
[] Go out and get yourself a lieutenant! (You may have one per twenty Regiment members, minimum one)
-[] Teach them the way of the builder, as much as you know how that works. (Adds one action to Bunker)
-[] Teach them the way of the talker, so you don't have to do that crap! (Adds one action to Personnel)
-[] Teach them the way of the organizer, so you have more time to put out more fires (Adds one action to Upgrades)
[] Find a, uh, techmaid, and get some prototype kits by hook or by crook.
-[] Willow's Bane Model 845 Flamethrower: A backpack mounted engineering and pyrotechnical weapon. It brings fire and death, and more importantly prevents building repair.
-[] Clancy-Raca M4: A sniper rifle with a potent optic and no theoretical maximum range. Takes 7.62mm rounds.
-[] Balfour Falconer Field Mortar: A very heavy demoltion charge deploying 250mm mortar, and the gun most responsable for letting infantry tear up concrete.
-[] 74-c2 Metora Gunship: It's like a Ronan except its got 2x 120mm instead of 1x. That's about it.
[] Requisition Material
-[] Logistics Support: Flatbeds, Fuel, and other niceties.
-[] Artillery Systems: 40mm guns, 120mm guns, mortars, and 'soft' upgrades.
-[] Base Support: More concrete, more faster.
[] Get in touch with another regiment that does something you need (Discovers and improves relations with one random regiment inside the search group)
-[] Logistics
-[] Production
-[] Frontline Combat
-[] QRF
-[] Water Logistics
-[] Techmaids
-[] Partisans
-[] War Bureau
-[] Great Warden Railroad (GWRR)
-[] 58e Intelligence
-[] 26e Commando
-[] 14e Medical
-[] 22e Chemical Warfare
[] Find a way to get your guys some quality of life upgrades so things suck less out here.
[] Go talk to someone specific/Meet a Specific Regiment
-[] Bug Kirito, the leader of your commandos for rent
-[] Go talk to Zairman before you end up with his regiment living out of your base.
-[] Go... go make up with Loup. You said some things, there was a misunderstanding, she said things. Patch this up before it festers.
-[] Write in named character or regiment number (this includes in-regiment characters)
[] You have enough spare equipment and kit: put some time and manpower into the Brigade functions! (Grants one Brigade action)


BRIGADE
(Choose One!)
[] Begin preparing for a gradual push
-[] Slowly, the noose tightens on Port of Rime. Get in, and do a little daily walking fire to keep them on their toes.
-[] Huntsfort taunts you, and you can get some scab garrison troops to hold things down while you reach out and take a nibble
-[] Invest and secure Crow's Nest: You want to eat it.
-[] Begin piling on to Frostmarch, so you can let Zairman raid the backline and begin isolating Fortress Foxcatcher.
-[] Avenge the Navy, and put the boots to Wightwalk so you can have a hole of naval resupply.
-[] Time to go for the big one: Invest Foxcatcher, and begin the siege on a refinery town. (Locked, must take 2/4 approaches to the area first)
[] Search for more regiments to add to the Brigade: you have to catch them all!
-[] Write-in Regiment Number, CO, or name.
-[] Write-in Regiment Skillset: ex; Transhipment, Rail, Medical, Infantry, Armor, Artillery, Et Cettera.
[] Promote an officer to Brigade Staff
-[] Scout from another Regiment in the Brigade
-[] Write-in Officer Name.