VileScurvy
Verified Pirate
- Location
- Malaysia
[X] The Abdul Haqq Revenant, 'Ghul King'.
By Allah's name, this will be glorious!
By Allah's name, this will be glorious!
[X] The Abdul Haqq Revenant, 'Ghul King'.
- Location
- Massholistan
[X] Disney Mechworks H-90 Handsome Prince, 'Ali'.
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
Art.
Nearly every time I've had this exact briefing phrase said to me, it's been a filthy lie, so... we're screwed.
[X] The Abdul Haqq Revenant, 'Ghul King'.
EW Dominance, hacking, and ALL THE DRONES.
[X] E+E NE-70 Fire Drake, 'Ifrit'.
The only thing that can kill us is us.
The only thing that can kill us is us.
Kanata.EXE
Programmer
- Location
- Indonesia
[X] The Abdul Haqq Revenant, 'Ghul King'.
Cornuthaum
Be kind to each other.
- Location
- Austria
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[10:29] Cornuthaum Heliophagus: Polaris-Northstar is SSC; E+E/Heavy is Harrison, Abdul Haqq is HORUS...
[10:30] Cornuthaum Heliophagus: is Disney GMS or IPS-N
So, @Havocfett, you said I should ask you in thread?
[x] Disney Mechworks H-90 Handsome Prince, 'Ali'.
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Ginger Maniac
Subject to Gravity
- Location
- Old Blighty
Do we revote if we already put in a preference before the update?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Disney is IPS-N. It's been a long time so the Disney Classics are long forgotten, but most of the mech lines are a call to some famous Disney media archetype. Some are from our time period (The Drake is the Handsome Prince, the Blackbeard is the Noble Beast, and the Lancaster is the Beloved Princess) and some aren't, representing hundreds of years of cultural shift and new concepts (The Nelson is the Corporate Exemplar, for example).
There isn't really a GMS equivalent since it's more a game mechanic than an in-universe conceit in my eyes, but you can basically consider E+E to have the generalist stuff rolled into their portfolio in terms of 'who sources a bunch of cheap mech designs to anyone with cash'.
It's not necessary.
ConfusedPotato
Unverified Verifier
- Location
- Australia
[X] The Abdul Haqq Revenant, 'Ghul King'.
Let The Die Be Cast!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Let the Die be Cast!
I pray that God, in his infinite mercy, forgives me, for I have done nothing to deserve it and dare not ask for repentance in good faith.
The purges have begun. Every man, woman, and child on Rubicon station is dead by my hand or by my order. I looked to my confidants, looked to my advisors, looked even to my rivals and said "Be vile men, commit vile acts, for vile men win in this galaxy and vile acts bring profit" and they heard nothing they did not approve of and they raised neither objections nor questions. I look to men and women I saw as paragons of righteousness and bastions of valor and I see that I was deceived, for despite all of their talents and all of their skill each of them is as base as I. And each of them looks at me, and they see me as a righteous man and a courageous man and a man who shall lead them to greatness.
This is a lie. I will not lead them to greatness. I will lead them to wealth, and to temporal power, and to comfortable deaths on fat beds a long time from now. And those beds will be built on a mountain of corpses and none shall care for I told them not to.
They see me a worker of miracles, for I have shut off the Omninet and soon shall shut off the Blink Gate and kill a Sphere warship. But these are not miracles, they are petty cruelties, and were others clever instead of greedy, hyenas instead of jackals, they would have done this ten thousand times before. They see me as unstoppable, someone for whom all opposition falls, who even the Sphere could not hope to stop. But I am not unstoppable, for any one of them could have said "Halt! This is evil" at ten thousand points and what choice would I have had but to acquiesce? I am merely a murderer, and they are merely complicit.
And now they arrange themselves around me, warships prostrate, ready to plunge the Rubicon to war, to change the face of the galaxy forever. And against them, the meek and the greedy muster themselves in vain, foolish hope. They think this may all be swept away. Intimidation, perhaps murder, and the status quo can be restored and what happened here simply un-happened without issue.
They are fools. Moreso than the cowards at my feet, they are fools. And in mere minutes, they shall know it!
Here, the Sphere shatters! Here, their hegemony ends! Let rule not be from Earth, or from corporations, or from the people of the sector, but from I and those craven fools who cast themselves at my feet.
The Gate awakens for the last time. The Kipling flies, unwitting, into the inferno. The players are at my table, and the game begins.
And with my order, "open fire", the die is cast!
You are dying in half a dozen places.
A plasma lance pierces your heart, you grasp your killer, unleashing autocannon rounds into his chest and face as he stabs again and again-
You are missing an arm, your heatsinks have melted and your cockpit gutted. Your engines flare to full, ramming into the enemy killing another you-
You stand atop the Kipling's hull, setting drones upon your enemy, turning hostile mechs upon themselves. A hostile corvette gets too close, you compromise it, turn its reactor upon itself, you-
You are on your final approach. The enemy warship bleeds from a dozen wounds, great rents ripped through its armor. Its escort, fighters and mechs, follow you into its guts, juking, weaving, trying to shoot the great cannon from your shoulder. It's a feint, though. One of them lands a hit, melting the barrel into uselessness but you've reached your target. You grab the armored hull of the bridge, anchoring yourself to it, and overload your reactor-
You become yourself again, breaching the surface of a sea of remote-controlled lives. You vomit, violently, helmet-vacs suctioning it away as quickly as it emerges.
You realize that your hardsuit is deployed. Helmet up, weapons armed, verniers firing automatically. Your other bodies-no, the Mechs are a dull throbbing pain at the back of your skull, dulling your reflexes, slowing your mind, and saddling you with the nausea of being in six places at once. The Ghul King, alongside the mechs of Yvette and the Faarao squadron. Your vision swims as one of You-them takes a hit, and as your vision clears you become fully aware of the horror of your surroundings..
You're floating in a sea of shrapnel and corpses. Friends, coworkers, acquaintances, many burned beyond recognition. Your helmet tags them all, a sea of holographic KIA notices. The enormous form of the Blink Gate looms behind you, a few hundred meters away. It takes you a moment to recognize it, for in hundreds of jumps, over a decade of travelling the stars, and untold transitions through the Gates you have never seen one turned off.
A moment of distraction. Another You, a Faarao squadron assault mech, is destroyed and you gain precious cognition, an imperceptible ebb in the pain and nausea. You become aware of the larger picture.
You have jumped into a war.
The Kipling is a wounded behemoth amidst a pack of predators. Warships, mechs, and strike craft harry at its flanks, all tiny in comparison to the behemoth warships. Reactors detonate, shrapnel flies, and space is thick with the gutted husks of once-proud vessels. Laser beams and railgun rounds and more exotic things besides lance to and from the Kipling, and while its harriers die in droves there are far, far too many of them. She is dying, and soon enough she will be dead, her crew, like you, consigned to the void and the tender mercies of scavengers and hostile search craft. Even now, shuttles and escape pods flee into the battlefield
And you are helpless to do anything about it. You can simply sit, and watch, and puppet the mechs as best you can until they are overwhelmed. A battered witness to the murder.
A notification pops up on your helmet. A heartbeat, wavering, uncertain, likely unconscious. "PRIORITY ONE BEACON: CAPTAIN HISHAM 'BARBER' AZIZ. CLASSIFICATION: ALIF PROTOCOL." Your eyes go wide, your heart skips a beat, and you head for the beacon on a pillar of flame.
Barber is dead when you get there. He's halfway out of his hardsuit, helmet, life support, radiation shielding all stripped, his bottom half trapped in a tangle of debris, his top curled protectively over the head and chest of a man in his hastily donned gear. Diplomat Oliveira, Barber's charge. He must have strapped the gear onto him when the hull began to breach. Died that he might live..
You won't fail his memory.
You pry Oliveira, still unconscious, from Barber's grasp. You blink away your tears and look him in the eyes, his features frozen in a determined grimace, give him one last hug, and speak a prayer to yourself in arabic. "We belong to Allah and to Him we return." And then you consign him to the void as you look for other survivors in the debris and begin to plan.
You find your escape route within minutes. A hostile assault carrier, broadcasting itself as the Midgard Serpent, is positioned near the gate. Only a few miles, if you had a drone fling you you could hit it as debris or a semi-guided projectile, ride along until it leaves the field and depart on a shuttle.
You find Yvette soon afterwards. You nearly miss her, her suit is reading her as KIA, and only notice her when she shoots you in the shoulder with her service pistol. It doesn't penetrate your armor, but it does get your attention. She's...bad off, one leg is twisted the wrong way, the other's been burned through the armor, down to the bone, one of her hands is mangled, and her comms aren't working so you have to press your helmet to hers to talk to her. You skip the pleasantries, the platitudes, and go straight to business.
"I'm getting us out of here," you say, "I've got one of the diplomats. Don't let him go, don't let him die." Yvette nods weakly and salutes with her good hand as you pass Oliveira to her. Then you kick off, looking for more survivors.
You dispatch one of the of the Ghul King's drones for the drop: a small, gangly thing with overlong arms built around a beam cannon. It'll be some minutes before you arrive, plenty of time for you to find and grab any further survivors.
Or at least it would be, in other circumstances. As you drift through the debris, heading towards a pair of lifesigns on your scopes you spot a stray cannon-shot with your other bodies. A five meter wide stream of plasma, poised to slice through the field of debris and kill both survivors in seconds.
You have no time, you thumb your thrusters to full, let another mech fall silent to give you the mental capacity to act, and make a choice.
Save One
[ ] Shorn is trying to pull Valiant's corpse from the debris. She's going to get ripped to pieces if you don't get her moving right now.
[ ] Mouse has lost control of his jetpack. He's a sitting duck if you don't grab him. And goddammit, no-one's going to die wearing a fucking mouse helmet under your watch.
I pray that God, in his infinite mercy, forgives me, for I have done nothing to deserve it and dare not ask for repentance in good faith.
The purges have begun. Every man, woman, and child on Rubicon station is dead by my hand or by my order. I looked to my confidants, looked to my advisors, looked even to my rivals and said "Be vile men, commit vile acts, for vile men win in this galaxy and vile acts bring profit" and they heard nothing they did not approve of and they raised neither objections nor questions. I look to men and women I saw as paragons of righteousness and bastions of valor and I see that I was deceived, for despite all of their talents and all of their skill each of them is as base as I. And each of them looks at me, and they see me as a righteous man and a courageous man and a man who shall lead them to greatness.
This is a lie. I will not lead them to greatness. I will lead them to wealth, and to temporal power, and to comfortable deaths on fat beds a long time from now. And those beds will be built on a mountain of corpses and none shall care for I told them not to.
They see me a worker of miracles, for I have shut off the Omninet and soon shall shut off the Blink Gate and kill a Sphere warship. But these are not miracles, they are petty cruelties, and were others clever instead of greedy, hyenas instead of jackals, they would have done this ten thousand times before. They see me as unstoppable, someone for whom all opposition falls, who even the Sphere could not hope to stop. But I am not unstoppable, for any one of them could have said "Halt! This is evil" at ten thousand points and what choice would I have had but to acquiesce? I am merely a murderer, and they are merely complicit.
And now they arrange themselves around me, warships prostrate, ready to plunge the Rubicon to war, to change the face of the galaxy forever. And against them, the meek and the greedy muster themselves in vain, foolish hope. They think this may all be swept away. Intimidation, perhaps murder, and the status quo can be restored and what happened here simply un-happened without issue.
They are fools. Moreso than the cowards at my feet, they are fools. And in mere minutes, they shall know it!
Here, the Sphere shatters! Here, their hegemony ends! Let rule not be from Earth, or from corporations, or from the people of the sector, but from I and those craven fools who cast themselves at my feet.
The Gate awakens for the last time. The Kipling flies, unwitting, into the inferno. The players are at my table, and the game begins.
And with my order, "open fire", the die is cast!
*
You are dying in half a dozen places.
A plasma lance pierces your heart, you grasp your killer, unleashing autocannon rounds into his chest and face as he stabs again and again-
You are missing an arm, your heatsinks have melted and your cockpit gutted. Your engines flare to full, ramming into the enemy killing another you-
You stand atop the Kipling's hull, setting drones upon your enemy, turning hostile mechs upon themselves. A hostile corvette gets too close, you compromise it, turn its reactor upon itself, you-
You are on your final approach. The enemy warship bleeds from a dozen wounds, great rents ripped through its armor. Its escort, fighters and mechs, follow you into its guts, juking, weaving, trying to shoot the great cannon from your shoulder. It's a feint, though. One of them lands a hit, melting the barrel into uselessness but you've reached your target. You grab the armored hull of the bridge, anchoring yourself to it, and overload your reactor-
You become yourself again, breaching the surface of a sea of remote-controlled lives. You vomit, violently, helmet-vacs suctioning it away as quickly as it emerges.
You realize that your hardsuit is deployed. Helmet up, weapons armed, verniers firing automatically. Your other bodies-no, the Mechs are a dull throbbing pain at the back of your skull, dulling your reflexes, slowing your mind, and saddling you with the nausea of being in six places at once. The Ghul King, alongside the mechs of Yvette and the Faarao squadron. Your vision swims as one of You-them takes a hit, and as your vision clears you become fully aware of the horror of your surroundings..
You're floating in a sea of shrapnel and corpses. Friends, coworkers, acquaintances, many burned beyond recognition. Your helmet tags them all, a sea of holographic KIA notices. The enormous form of the Blink Gate looms behind you, a few hundred meters away. It takes you a moment to recognize it, for in hundreds of jumps, over a decade of travelling the stars, and untold transitions through the Gates you have never seen one turned off.
A moment of distraction. Another You, a Faarao squadron assault mech, is destroyed and you gain precious cognition, an imperceptible ebb in the pain and nausea. You become aware of the larger picture.
You have jumped into a war.
The Kipling is a wounded behemoth amidst a pack of predators. Warships, mechs, and strike craft harry at its flanks, all tiny in comparison to the behemoth warships. Reactors detonate, shrapnel flies, and space is thick with the gutted husks of once-proud vessels. Laser beams and railgun rounds and more exotic things besides lance to and from the Kipling, and while its harriers die in droves there are far, far too many of them. She is dying, and soon enough she will be dead, her crew, like you, consigned to the void and the tender mercies of scavengers and hostile search craft. Even now, shuttles and escape pods flee into the battlefield
And you are helpless to do anything about it. You can simply sit, and watch, and puppet the mechs as best you can until they are overwhelmed. A battered witness to the murder.
A notification pops up on your helmet. A heartbeat, wavering, uncertain, likely unconscious. "PRIORITY ONE BEACON: CAPTAIN HISHAM 'BARBER' AZIZ. CLASSIFICATION: ALIF PROTOCOL." Your eyes go wide, your heart skips a beat, and you head for the beacon on a pillar of flame.
Barber is dead when you get there. He's halfway out of his hardsuit, helmet, life support, radiation shielding all stripped, his bottom half trapped in a tangle of debris, his top curled protectively over the head and chest of a man in his hastily donned gear. Diplomat Oliveira, Barber's charge. He must have strapped the gear onto him when the hull began to breach. Died that he might live..
You won't fail his memory.
You pry Oliveira, still unconscious, from Barber's grasp. You blink away your tears and look him in the eyes, his features frozen in a determined grimace, give him one last hug, and speak a prayer to yourself in arabic. "We belong to Allah and to Him we return." And then you consign him to the void as you look for other survivors in the debris and begin to plan.
You find your escape route within minutes. A hostile assault carrier, broadcasting itself as the Midgard Serpent, is positioned near the gate. Only a few miles, if you had a drone fling you you could hit it as debris or a semi-guided projectile, ride along until it leaves the field and depart on a shuttle.
You find Yvette soon afterwards. You nearly miss her, her suit is reading her as KIA, and only notice her when she shoots you in the shoulder with her service pistol. It doesn't penetrate your armor, but it does get your attention. She's...bad off, one leg is twisted the wrong way, the other's been burned through the armor, down to the bone, one of her hands is mangled, and her comms aren't working so you have to press your helmet to hers to talk to her. You skip the pleasantries, the platitudes, and go straight to business.
"I'm getting us out of here," you say, "I've got one of the diplomats. Don't let him go, don't let him die." Yvette nods weakly and salutes with her good hand as you pass Oliveira to her. Then you kick off, looking for more survivors.
You dispatch one of the of the Ghul King's drones for the drop: a small, gangly thing with overlong arms built around a beam cannon. It'll be some minutes before you arrive, plenty of time for you to find and grab any further survivors.
Or at least it would be, in other circumstances. As you drift through the debris, heading towards a pair of lifesigns on your scopes you spot a stray cannon-shot with your other bodies. A five meter wide stream of plasma, poised to slice through the field of debris and kill both survivors in seconds.
You have no time, you thumb your thrusters to full, let another mech fall silent to give you the mental capacity to act, and make a choice.
Save One
[ ] Shorn is trying to pull Valiant's corpse from the debris. She's going to get ripped to pieces if you don't get her moving right now.
[ ] Mouse has lost control of his jetpack. He's a sitting duck if you don't grab him. And goddammit, no-one's going to die wearing a fucking mouse helmet under your watch.
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ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
[X] Mouse has lost control of his jetpack. He's a sitting duck if you don't grab him. And goddammit, no-one's going to die wearing a fucking mouse helmet under your watch.
He's the rookie we fucked with the night before, it's narrative law that we save the poor guy and help him turn into a sick badass.
Punished Mickey, A Fallen Icon
the properties i've lost... the public domain laws i've lost... they won't stop hurting... it's like they're still there
He's the rookie we fucked with the night before, it's narrative law that we save the poor guy and help him turn into a sick badass.
Punished Mickey, A Fallen Icon
the properties i've lost... the public domain laws i've lost... they won't stop hurting... it's like they're still there
- Location
- La Ballena City Raft
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Mouse has lost control of his jetpack. He's a sitting duck if you don't grab him. And goddammit, no-one's going to die wearing a fucking mouse helmet under your watch.
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
[X] Shorn is trying to pull Barber's corpse from the debris. She's going to get ripped to pieces if you don't get her moving right now.
Sorry mouse. Hopefully you'll come back as a traumatic memory.
Sorry mouse. Hopefully you'll come back as a traumatic memory.
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
Okay... we're dealing with a guy with some serious megalomania going on... and he's planned this. We flew into a long-planned ambush, and he sealed the Gate behind us. We're kind of fucked...
[X] Shorn is trying to pull Barber's corpse from the debris. She's going to get ripped to pieces if you don't get her moving right now.
Sorry, rookie, but we need the veteran more right now.
Wait. Wait a minute...
Didn't we already free his corpse and send him off with a prayer? Did he get caught again? Or is this a different Barber? (Or typo?)
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Motherfucker, she's supposed to be pulling on Valiant's corpse. My bad.
EDIT: Fixed.
Cornuthaum
Be kind to each other.
- Location
- Austria
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] Shorn is trying to pull Barber's corpse from the debris. She's going to get ripped to pieces if you don't get her moving right now.
We're in a hellish nightmare warzone with death not just on the line but already reaching for our throats.
Mouse will die as he lived: With mouse ears on his head and the heart of a lion. But we need a veteran in this hellish warzone. We already have a civilian load to protect (the diplomat), we can't do that and the newbie.
We're in a hellish nightmare warzone with death not just on the line but already reaching for our throats.
Mouse will die as he lived: With mouse ears on his head and the heart of a lion. But we need a veteran in this hellish warzone. We already have a civilian load to protect (the diplomat), we can't do that and the newbie.
VileScurvy
Verified Pirate
- Location
- Malaysia
[X] Shorn is trying to pull Valiant's corpse from the debris. She's going to get ripped to pieces if you don't get her moving right now.
Sorry Mouse....
"Every soul shall taste death."(3:185)
Sorry Mouse....
"Every soul shall taste death."(3:185)