Remove ads

Kant-O-Celle Quest [a Kantai Collection game, transcribed from 4chan]

Reader mode
As a heads-up, a couple of hours ago I got Navy Vet's permission, and I've made the edits to his Thread #40 installment of the Chief Parker story, replacing the original dodgy German with the genuine article provided by @Magni. ;)
 
Reposted versions of Naka-Chan! and BB-61 have been updated. ;) I'm working on the main meat of the quest-threads now, but another bout of work looms ahead of me, so it may not come for a few hours yet.
 
Well, I just binged the quest. Seriously good stuff. And @Trace Coburn; major thanks for transcribing this, the few times I've tried going through archives for quests before I've utterly hated it so your transcriptions are really appreciated. And now I think I really need sleep.
 
Drasis said:
Well, I just binged the quest. Seriously good stuff. And @Trace Coburn; major thanks for transcribing this, the few times I've tried going through archives for quests before I've utterly hated it so your transcriptions are really appreciated. And now I think I really need sleep.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
planefriend did good. And the Battle of LA was the best thing I read that month.
 
Remove ads
Session #25 pt.1
  • Threadmarks


    • TWITTER: twitter.com/planefriend
    ARCHIVE: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?tags=Kant-O-Celle Quest

    In the dark void of the CIC, the World itself lies below you; your blue marble curving away to each side as you gaze down upon the tiny little dots of Life in the opening moves of the Danse Macabre. A strange numbness has stolen across your mind, a feeling of *distance.* The images surrounding the main map display seem like confusing jumbles of pixels and light, chaotic and meaningless. Somewhere far away Goto – The Admiral – has stumbled, and now you feel the yoke of command upon your shoulders, a portentous gravity that anchors your thoughts and stills your frenzy. You were always a sea captain; the man down in that wide expanse of blue with the sea-spray on his face and only his own little corner of the war to worry about. You are no Admiral, trained and schooled in the ancient art of command. You have never fought a battle like this, as Goto has many times. You have neither the training nor the experience.

    And you know you can win.


    One of your earliest memories is playing tic-tac-toe with your grandfather; all whiskered warmth and love; his grizzled smile as you marveled at how he could always win if he took the first move; taking the center square. Later, at the Academy, the fencing instructor making you practice till you could stride towards a wall, stop, and reach your arm out to just barely brush it with your fingertips, measuring the distance to the millimeter by eye and intuition. Your first fencing matches, the struggle to master the basic parry and later the riposte; the uncanny realization that the movements were incredibly simple, and the great and over-riding difficulty was *timing* them. Victory, always, determined by seconds and millimeters.

    Spread before you on the tactical map is Time and Space; interwoven into one fabric (Einstein only gave numbers to what Alexander knew, you realize,) the tapestry upon which life and death are about to be recorded. Reduced to such symbolic sterility, you almost feel as if you could reach out and *grab* it up in your hands, pull and *stretch* it to fit your needs; becoming distant when the enemy wants you near and near where he wants you far. Reality falls into place with a soft, subtle "click."

    "Hornet," you say, your voice sounding distant and hollow to your own ears. "Launch your spotted SBDs and vector them for that Surface Action Group to your south, where they will commence anti-surface strikes. They are to make best time at military power to and from the objective, and loiter at altitude when they return to you. When they've cleared the decks, turn and sail due east at flank speed."

    "Aye, sir," Hornet says.


    The mapped tactical situation still doesn't look any better.
    (Map by demetrious, Tohsaka, and Command: Modern Air and Naval Operations.)​

    By coincidence or unholy design, your forces stand upon the first point of a perfect triangle, with Iwo Jima at the second and the abyssal carriers at the third; each side almost exactly 225 nautical miles apart. Unimpeded, their strikes will arrive simultaneously. But steaming east, towards the abyssals and away from Iwo... assuming their strikes are launching right now, it should give you... twenty-five minutes between waves, give or take a few.

    Ninety miles to the surface group, and ninety miles back. The SBDs should drop their bombs and be back over Hornet, fuel-light and at optimal combat weight in sixty-six minutes, roughly. The abyssal's carrier strike, which you're sailing towards, will arrive in about seventy-two.

    Assuming the abyssal carriers keep their course, your strike should meet them in approximately eighty-four minutes. The P-8 Poseidons out of Yokota make 440 knots at cruise, meaning they'll arrive in seventy-one minutes... making their attacks just before the coordinated strike package rolls in.

    The pieces are falling together into an image that's terribly familiar, and yet... it's the way to win. It's the *only* way to win, it seems – you don't feel like a commander so much as water flowing through a downhill channel, following the path of least resistance, picking up velocity towards terrible and chaotic rapids.


    "Mustin, Fitzgerald. Devote eighty percent of your Tomahawks to an anti-runway strike against Iwo Jima. They're cut into volcanic rock, so don't hold back." The affirmatives of the skippers drift back to you; and within a few minutes the screen lights up with the little tracks of Tomahawks beginning their long, sea-skimming trek towards runways that've been programmed into target catalogs for decades... just in case. Time to impact – about thirty minutes. Iwo's first strike package will be its last.

    With plenty of Time to kill before the fireworks really start in earnest, you turn to the conventional forces at your disposal – as limited as they are. A squadron of Super Hornets at Atsugi from the carrier; armed and already taxiing. Japanese F-2s in the air and tanking up even now for their final inbound leg to adopt a CAP over your forces. And four F-22s from Kaneda, pushing the limits of their impressive range. You relay the orders that will bring them into play at the last possible minute, giving them as much combat time as possible – and with fighters punching afterburner at low altitude, at the limits of their range, that time is terribly limited indeed.

    The dice are cast and sailing... and all you can do now is wait for them to land.

    [ ] I wonder how Harder and his wolfpack is doing. Where are they, out there? Have they found the enemy? Has the enemy found them? Are they even still alive?
    [ ] I wonder how our unseen escorts are doing, deep below the waves. Do they smell anything?
    [ ] Other/write-in?


    [X] I wonder how Harder and his wolfpack is doing. Where are they, out there? Have they found the enemy? Has the enemy found them? Are they even still alive?
    (PoV shift: we are now Harder.)

    You *wait.*

    The sunlight shimmers and glimmers on the surface far above your head.

    There are demons in the ocean. You can't see them, but you've expecting them for hours, and now you've finally got the hydrophone contact – the distant murmur of a great galloping gaggle of assholes making best time miles away... and closing. You've been working your way forward, trying to get into a good firing position for when they pull alongside. Shortly you'll be attempting the most difficult attack in the book – an approach to a carrier group, in the day, in clear water. You've been poking your periscope up every now and then and haven't picked up any search radars on your radials, so you're currently debating the risk of surfacing to make a perilous dash towards -

    "Harrrrrrrdeeeerr~saaaaaaaahn," a familiar voice purrsighs into your ear. Your periscope mast was also equipped with a very compact "satellite phone," whatever the fuck that is, allowing you the highly unusual luxury of radio communications with "your" wolfpack at periscope depth with minimal risk of hostile interception. Every time you stick your snout up, I-8 is there crooning into your ear.

    "I'm already whet, Harder-saaaa~aaahn~!" A fiendish, almost-embarrassed giggle.

    You're starting to reconsider the surface dash. Being spotted and dive-bombed by an abyssal search plane would be a swift and honorable death, but part of you fears her ongoing sluttery will poison your soul and follow you into the afterlife.

    "What depth have you been keeping?!" you snap back. "I thought you were to the south of me."

    "I've been... going dowhn~" she sighs.


    Jesus *fuck.* "Iku, you should make your approach deep – under the layer. Less chance of being heard."

    "But then I won't be able to talk to you!" she replies.

    You restrain yourself before biting out 'exactly.' "So? Get close, fire those supercoward longrange oh-god-don't-depthcharge-me pussypedoes you like so much and run like a bitch. Do we need to be chatting for you to do that?"

    "But..." her voice has suddenly gone tremulous; a note of terrible, hidden vulnerability creeping into it. "If I... Harder, everyone says you're really good at this kind of thing, and with these radios I was... I was hoping..."

    Something twangs and twitches amidships – almost like the guy watching the battery gauges farted, or something.

    VOTE THE FIRST
    [ ] ... okay. I'll guide you in, see if we can't attack as a group.
    [ ] Nice try, you fucking seamenschooner. Shut the fuck up already, we're supposed to be running silent and shit.

    VOTE THE SECOND
    [ ] Stay at periscope depth for the approach - it's gonna be a long-range shot to hit anything important, but running on the surface – in daylight – near carriers – is just insane.
    [ ] Surface and make a dash at flank speed to gain some distance. The enemy is still outside of visual range, and even twenty minutes on the surface is worth a few hours plodding about submerged.


    [X] Nice try, you fucking seamenschooner. Shut the fuck up already, we're supposed to be running silent and shit.
    [X] Stay at periscope depth for the approach - it's gonna be a long-range shot to hit anything important, but running on the surface – in daylight – near carriers – is just insane.

    "Ooooooooooh, nice try, you slutscow," you hiss into the radio link. "Shut the hell up and do your damn job, you creepy – slut – thing!"

    "You're going to be ~so~ much fun to corrupt~" Iku says lustfully, and finally – FINALLY – closes the link. Thank fuck.

    Analyzing the range and angles, you predict that the enemy force – which can only be the carrier task force you were sent to find and engage – will pass close enough that you'll be able to make the approach submerged and still be in decent range of the carriers... but not point-blank, which would guarantee a hit, and which is the range most people would prefer to fire from. But running on the surface near two – if not more – carriers is almost guaranteed suicide. The most potent anti-submarine weapon ever devised was the airplane, for many reasons. They're fast; they can cover tremendous amounts of ocean and catch you on the surface. That speed gives you little time or warning to make a crash dive to avoid their bombs – and worst of all, from above they can often see the shadow of a submerged object at periscope depth. Diving in time from periscope depth is hard enough; a crash dive from the surface is even riskier. Crash dives are risky in general; if the dive planes get stuck, you might not be able to recover in time, and just keep going deeper... and deeper... and deeper...

    That's no way to go.

    If Iku and... Hachi? Whatever. I-8 and I-19, the tramp twins. They'll probably approach at periscope depth and fire their Long Lances from a safe standoff distance – they've got a fair chance to hit, given the power of that weapon, and honestly, you can't countenance those fatassed bitches trying to maneuver under depth charge attack. You shudder at the memory of them wiggling those round, firm asses into their skintight swimsuits just before the sortie, stretching the fabric over -


    - you shudder again. Disgust. Disgust, hot and pure flows through your blood, firing you up for the battle to come. Fucking horrible. Everything is horrible. Everything's BEEN horrible, especially with Queen Slut always crossing those slender, toned calves with deliberately slow, sensual flair before she smirks at you from her throne atop Slut Peak.

    It feels so good to be in the water again, watching the sunlight sparkle and shimmer, listening to the enemy in the surface duct as you sprint closer at flank speed, batteries draining rapidly – charging in for a date with destiny. It takes a lot of time to manhandle torpedoes into tubes, so its time to decide what you'll be carrying into battle. You've got the standard load of those fucking Mark 14s – Yokosuka's armorers assure you that the fixes they made to your loadout are reliable (they kept them till the 70s, they say – the fucking 70s!?) but you're also packing some Mark 18s. They only make 29 knots, not the impressive 45 of the Mark 14, and they only reach 4,000 yards to the Mark 14s 9,000... but they're quiet, and leave no tell-tale trail of bubbles that'll lead hostile destroyers back to you.

    But it's going to be a longer shot at the carriers, and the carriers are what you're here to stop.

    [ ] Load the Mark 14s.
    [ ] Load the Mark 18s.
    [ ] Load a mix – three and three.


    41759280 (demetrious) -
    >>41759263
    NEW THREAD
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Session #25 pt.2
  • Threadmarks

    • [X] Load the Mark 14s.

    You weigh the choices for a few minutes. You remember the debut of the Mark 18, and it wasn't a hell of a lot better than the Mark 14 – hell, it was *worse.* Mush took them for their first ride and he never lived long enough to report on their effectiveness, and another skipper that took them for a shakedown cruise was driven to apocalyptic fury by their teething problems. More importantly, they're slower and have different foibles than your hated Mark 14... in the kind of close-in, knife-fight attacks you prefer, intuition and timing are everything, and you're just not used to the slower electrics.

    You're hunting the devil you don't know, so you'll use the devil you *do.*

    The approach goes slowly, long minutes slipping away into the abyss as you motor towards your intercept point. Your mental chart plot indicates you'll be firing from 3,500 yards or so, assuming the enemy doesn't make a wild zig or zag. You can see them through your periscope, now – small grey dots at a distance; planes buzzing above them like gnats. You can even hear the occasional Ping! of the escort screen banging away with active; hoping to find you and yours early. It'll be a while before you have to worry about them, though.


    You duck deep a few times when you spot an incoming search plane coming too close for comfort, but you always pop back above the layer to monitor the enemy as you close for your launch point. Batteries are good at 75 percent, all your fish are loaded, and you're ready to roll. It's just a matter of time, now – final approach. Swimming back to periscope depth, you stick your scope above the waves and see the enemy vessels around fifteen thousand yards; close enough to see their tiny flags flapping in the breeze at full magnification.

    And – you cannot believe your mad luck – they're coming straight towards you. They *are* zigzagging, and they just happened to zag right towards you.

    [ ] Change course fast and pour it on at flank – you need to gain at least five, six hundred yards abeam for a good shot at their side. Bow shots are terrible.
    [ ] Change course to pull off abeam, but only far enough for an oblique shot. At those ranges you can hardly miss a carrier anyway, and you don't trust the modern ords techs to really sate the bloodthirsty soul of a Mark 14. Even they admit they don't quite know how any of this shipgirl... boy... magic bullshit works, after all.


    [X] Change course to pull off abeam, but only far enough for an oblique shot. At those ranges you can hardly miss a carrier anyway, and you don't trust the modern ords techs to really sate the bloodthirsty soul of a Mark 14. Even they admit they don't quite know how any of this shipgirl... boy... magic bullshit works, after all.

    You lower your glass eye and go deep, ducking under the cone of enemy active sonar as they bang away with insistent, steady PING! PING! PING!s, looking for you. Good luck, faggots. You'll be able to cut throttle in a few minutes. The real beauty of the oblique-angle shot is that with the right gyro settings, you can take the swipe from fairly good range and let the enemy just sail into your fish – if you'd launched from directly abeam, you'd have been right next to the destroyer escort at point of closest approach. Plus, it lets you keep your nose pointed at the incoming active sonar pulses, which you couldn't do if launching a beam attack.

    Your blood is really pumping now – it's real. It's happening. You're going to sneak in close and *clobber* those ugly murdering sons of bitches so hard that they'll think the Wahoo was here, too.


    You've turned your bow towards the oncoming enemy and cut throttle, patiently listening to the escorts pinging away fruitlessly quite close, when you hear it – the high-pitched whine of high-speed screws. You doubt they'll hear it unless it's coming right at them – that's the penalty for slammin away instead of paying due dilligence to passive hydrophones. I-8 and I-19 are taking their shots. By your watch they're right on time – they approached slower, counting on their longer range, so they're probably shooting at 9-12 thousand yards, by your chart. Apparently that's a decent shot with those magic superpedoes of theirs. Whatever.

    Several seconds later you hear the more distant escorts thunder into flank RPMs, their machinery sounds thrumming through the surface duct as they go charging off towards the two Japanese submarines, their sonar slamming away with rapid pulses used for terminal attack. Those shallow-diving, slow-turning girls are going to have a bad day very soon, you think.

    [ ] Slow and steady wins the race – use this chance to close to attack range.
    [ ] They're distracted. Come to periscope depth so you can fine-tune your attack calculations while the escorts are swarming the two Japanese ships.
    [ ] Those slant-eyed whores are dead fucking meat under concentrated attack. You have to do something!


    [X] They're distracted. Come to periscope depth so you can fine-tune your attack calculations while the escorts are swarming the two Japanese ships.

    As the escorts go fucking apeshit and enter max-rate emergency turns (the sound of disrupted water near their bows a dead giveaway) to angle towards the Japanese subs in one great big angry gaggle, you realize it's the perfect time to come to persicope depth and take observations to make your attack as good as possible. You could theoretically guesstimate the enemy's position based on guesstimated speed and the sonar bearing, but chances like this don't come often – you have an opportunity to decide the battle with one crushing spread of torpedoes. You ascend past the thermal layer cautiously, the sound of hostile escorts and sonar pings intensifying sharply. You grit your teeth as you *feel* the sonar pulses slapping into your skin, but none of them are close enough to be a problem, and no escorts are close enough to get really good returns off you... yet. You're going ahead one-third, so you don't much fear detection.


    Mentally humming a jaunty tune to yourself, you raise your periscope and discover absolute fucking chaos. The hostile battle group has – fuck those stupid cowardly dumbfuck slantsluts forever – turned due west, hauling ass away from the spread of Long Lances they fired... and they're still seven-thousand yards distant and moving at flank speed. The sky is dark with flak bursts to the north, where small white dots are racing towards the fleet at high speed, skimming the waves. Crazy bastards.

    Your shot has been spoiled... for now. It looks like friendly planes are making a low-level torpedo attack on the enemy's new beam; and the enemy is already running with their stern to I-8 and I-19s spreads. Usually they'd present their stern to the incoming planes; forcing them into a tail chase and increasing the interception window for their CAP, but the Long Lance spread has precluded that. Your gut tells you they'll run from the fired spread for as long as possible, then turn sharply into the incoming planes to spoil their beam shot by presenting the narrow front aspect.

    In other words, right towards you.

    [ ] Go deep and go quiet. They either come this way again, or they don't.
    [ ] Go deep and fucking floor it. It's all or nothing, now, and point-blank is the only sure way to attack.


    [X] Go deep and fucking floor it. It's all or nothing, now, and point-blank is the only sure way to attack.

    Your mind is made up when you see the giant plumes of water climbing into the air in front of the white seaplanes boring in for their attack run; the abyssal escort cruisers unleashing their heavy guns in an attempt to swat the planes from the sky by slamming them into a towering column of sea spray. Those explosions will make the surface duct a washed-out mess; and the ashcans that'll be falling on I-8 and I-19 will take care of the deeps. You charge below the thermal layer once more, cranking the electrics to flank; your track on the abyssal destroyers degrading a bit as water rushes loudly over your ears. Hydrophones. Whatever.

    It's cold, in the deep, but you can feel a hot, almost searing heat in your breast as you tax your batteries for all they're worth, managing to push out nine knots in the dense, deep water just above your crush depth.

    *krumph!*

    *Krumph-krumphkrumphpkrkrumph!*


    The distant thunder of detonating depth charges comes bolting through the darkness; your fellow submarines under concentrated attack somewhere. Well, they attacked from range – they had plenty of time to go deep and creep away from their launch point... and the Long Lance's oxygen-powered system doesn't leave a telltale trail of bubbles (like that FUCKING Mark 14) that lead right back to your goddamn tube doors, so the enemy doesn't know exactly where to start looking for them; just a rough quadrant. If they know the hand-off attack, they might be dangerous... but even the fatassed, slow-turning boats should be okay for a while. You turn your wrist over and check your watch, the glow-in-the-dark-but-not-with-radium-because-we-banned-that-like-fucking-pusses dial revealing the time – you should be close now, if the enemy turned back into the wind, northward, they'll be coming towards you directly, or running parallel to your course. Now's the time to check. Rate-of-change in the sonar bearings can only tell you so much right now – it turns out all that noise in the surface duct works both ways.

    PING!

    Oh, no.

    PING!

    Oh no you didn't, you prickly annoying fuck.

    PING PING!

    That isn't what I thought it is.

    PING PING PING PING PING

    THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO FUCK OFF AND PING ELSEWHERE, ASSWIPE.

    PING PING PING PING PING PING PING PING PING-

    Fuck. One of the snooping fuckers got lucky and sniffed you out. You grit your teeth in sheer mad annoyance as you hear his screws pick up to flank speed; he must've been drifting when he approached, listening on hydrophones instead of blasting away like his moron friends, and happened to be close enough to hear you through the noise *and* the layer. Well, it happens. You adjust course to put your stern to his sonar bearing.


    The sound of fast-moving machinery thrums in your ears, and when it's too deafeningly loud to bear, you slam into a hard left-handed turn; your nine knots of speed letting you respond quickly. By the time the depth charges reach your depth, you're well clear of them. The incredible density of water is a double-edged sword; it contains the force of an explosion against anything it hits – a hit or near hit from a depth charge is almost guaranteed death. But the same effect neuters the blast past anything but very short range; which is why depth-charges are massive trash cans stuffed with TNT to try and maximize their miniscule range as much as possible. You cut throttles sharply, not daring more than 200 RPMs, and secure your b...

    … you unclench your asshole. That can't possibly be bilge pumps. How does this human shit work, anyways? Who gives a fuck, you're quiet now. You hear Sneaky McFuckMyFace circling around sharply overhead, and turn your bow back towards him to reduce your sonar cross-section as he tries to re-aqquire you. Without a buddy to standoff and maintain sonar contact when he accelerates for the kill, his chances of nailing you alone are remarkably slim. You can keep this up all day...

    ... but you don't have all goddamned day, do you?

    [ ] Run silent, run deep, you'll give him the slip soon enough. Play it safe.
    [ ] He's still charging around at flank up there, relying on active sonar. Surface in his wake next time he makes a depth charging run and take a peek around – see what we can see. Your situational awareness right now is tiny, and you hate surprises.


    [X] Run silent, run deep, you'll give him the slip soon enough. Play it safe.

    You've taken enough goddamn risks so far, and none of them have paid off. More to the point, a single enemy is easy enough to shake, especially since he seems to have no idea what the hell he's doing up there. You've got a noisy surface, a thermal layer and a lone enemy to contend with – there's no need to go shallow and make yourself much more vulnerable just for a sneak-peek you won't have time to exploit anyways.

    That soothes you through the next two or three dodges, punching flank speed as you turn and neatly sidestep each line of depth charges as the destroyer lays them down – and none of them are coming very close. They simply take too long to sink, and thine enemy isn't putting them right atop of you anyways; the thermal layer working its magic, bending and distorting the sound waves as they pass through.

    After the third – or was it the fourth? depth-charge run, you hear something new in your ears, a growing murmur over the ringing echoes of the last attack reflecting from the distant seafloor.

    Another high-speed steam turbine, closing fast.


    Within minutes you're hemmed in by two destroyers who set up a neat figure-eight attack on you; as one is leaving, another is coming in; aiming right where his fellow wasn't. They don't seem to be using the killer tactic; having one ship radio the other directions to fine-tune their attack run so they're not dropping blind; but you no longer have that two minute window before the destroyer can turn far enough to get you out of his baffles anymore. The attacks come in relentlessly, the concussions rattling your teeth together and sending sharp daggers of pain lancing through your aching skull. Without a co-ordinated hand-off attack, their chances of landing a solid hit on you aren't great – especially through the fuzz of the layer. But with an attack always coming in fast, your chances of simply slipping away at two knots have completely vanished. Worse, the incoming sonar pulses seem to come from everywhere, now – trying to minimize your aspect against one just gives the other a nice broadside look.

    This is how subs most often die – battered and blasted till the small leaks catch up with them, or their luck finally runs out and they take a depth charge on the chin after hours upon hours of terrifying bombardment. Some boats and skippers broke under the strain and tried desperately to escape at flank speed, only guaranteeing their deaths, and others panic and dive just a little too far below test depth, dying in a silent heartbeat as they're smashed inward, claimed by the ocean itself. The skippers who survive endured hours, some of them over a full day of constant attack before surfacing in the early morning, battered, weary, almost out of battery – but alive.

    You know you'll never make it past an hour.

    Because it's only been about ten minutes now, and you're already so fucking mad that the ocean is tinged RED.


    41762305 (demetrious) -
    THAT CONCLUDES THIS THREAD FOR THE NIGHT! We will reconvene SOONER THAN WEDNESDAY if at all possible. I am thinking of running TUESDAY, FRIDAY AND SATURDAY or something similar to try and make up for all the lost time. I'd run tomorrow but I've been told I'm attending a "joint birthday party" with my cousin or some shit, so balls to that.

    When we reconvene we will switch views back to Settle just as the first carrier attack waves on both sides hit their targets!

    >>41762236
    >Did we just kill Harder, or is he about to disregard his own advice?
    AHAHAHAHAHA
    Suffice to say I spent almost as many hours playing Aces of the Deep as I did Aces Over Europe. I'm not ENTIRELY a planefriend!
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Always Late said:
    Um, as the guy who asked that last question Planeguy answered,

    I need to ask this. What do you all think his maniacal laughter meant?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Harder is known for a couple of things.

    Killing Destroyers and taking over a day of constant depth charge bombardment to finally put down. And since he's a Gato-class, he's got 4 rear tubes and these assholes are probably about to get a reminder.
     
    I'm hoping for flush the bilges and release some oil let the destroyers think they bagged him. Then sneak up and sink the carriers as they pass. Bag the destroyers on his way back out with a pair of Mk 18s that they won't see coming as they rush in for the kill.
     
    Erk! That's what I get for being in a hurry to get to work. :oops:

    EDIT: I've also edited Session #25 pt.1 to reflect the actual map posted in the thread, rather than the old, unannotated one. Today was not my day. :confused:
     
    Last edited:
    Before anyone asks, the meta-laden text-conversation at the end of thread #46 between Hate, Increasingly Shitfaced Settle, and Arizona on Settle's phone is not going to be part of this transcription. Firstly, it'd be too much of a pain in the ass; secondly, and more importantly, I'd fucking die laughing before I finished reading it all again. I've barely survived this first time through! :rofl:
     
    Trace Coburn said:
    Before anyone asks, the meta-laden text-conversation at the end of thread #46 between Hate, Increasingly Shitfaced Settle, and Arizona on Settle's phone is not going to be part of this transcription. Firstly, it'd be too much of a pain in the ass; secondly, and more importantly, I'd fucking die laughing before I finished reading it all again. I've barely survived this first time through! :rofl:
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    I know that feeling. I've been following it my whole shift (yeah, I was that rambling guy).
     
    ...damn. I always miss the most interesting things and an opportunity to participate in them. I blame the time zone difference. (It's GMT+3 where I am, so I'm almost always asleep by the time those threads are live.)

    Oh well.
     
    SV5195R said:
    ...damn. I always miss the most interesting things and an opportunity to participate in them. I blame the time zone difference. (It's GMT+3 where I am, so I'm almost always asleep by the time those threads are live.)

    Oh well.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    We all have those moments. Mine are usually determined by which shift I'm working on a given week (not that I typically know what hours I'll be working until around Friday or Saturday of the week previous).
     
    Trace Coburn said:
    Before anyone asks, the meta-laden text-conversation at the end of thread #46 between Hate, Increasingly Shitfaced Settle, and Arizona on Settle's phone is not going to be part of this transcription. Firstly, it'd be too much of a pain in the ass; secondly, and more importantly, I'd fucking die laughing before I finished reading it all again. I've barely survived this first time through! :rofl:
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Can you at least drop a link to the thread itself? Interested parties may like to know...
     
    "Cpl. Hate" is obvious. "nettle !!yKCLkNN1aiq" is Adm. Settle; later, when he's drunk himself incoherent and paralytic, Arizona takes over his phone (marked by the point where she takes a selfie on it) to continue the conversation.

    If you read the archive.moe version, holding your cursor over the number of each reply (in the "Quoted by" line) will let you preview that reply; click that number to go to the actual post. You'll be able to follow the whole post-chain that way. ;)
     
    Trace Coburn said:
    "Cpl. Hate" is obvious. "nettle !!yKCLkNN1aiq" is Adm. Settle; later, when he's drunk himself incoherent and paralytic, Arizona takes over his phone (marked by the point where she takes a selfie on it) to continue the conversation.

    If you read the archive.moe version, holding your cursor over the number of each reply (in the "Quoted by" line) will let you preview that reply; click that number to go to the actual post. You'll be able to follow the whole post-chain that way. ;)
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Just finished reading through their conversation. DEAR GOD MY SIDES!
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top