- Location
- Poland
That makes me wonder. How badly do you think the UN people will react when they start talking about war crimes and Geneva Conventions and a local asks them whats a warcrime and he never heard of any Geneva Suggestions
Strangers in a Strange Sphere - [Battletech]
- Thread starter HeroCooky
- Start date
- Sci-Fi
Perspective - Militia Grunt
New
HeroCooky
Unverified Monstergirl
William Williamson (and not 'Billy Bob,' thank you very much) had never thought he would have much more to fear than his father finding out he and Mary Ann were tumblin' in the hay while shirking work. He had thought the worst week of his life was when Mary Ann's period came late, and he had to frantically find a way to marry her ASAP without his parents growing suspicious, only for it to just be a scare instead of a pregnancy.
That was three years and some months ago.
Now, his greatest fear in life was being squashed underneath a 'mech's feet, pulped by its stride, or obliterated by its munitions before he could return to his Mary Ann and marry her for real, work on their farm, and grow a happy family that would never have to fight in war with his and her hands.
His second greatest fear was getting shot in the stomach by the pirates and the thrice-cursed traitors and being left to bleed out in agony over hours. He had seen it happen; he had been forced to watch a man bleed out just a street over because the damned monsters had a machine gun, and all he had to fight with was his grand-dads hunting shotgun.
His third was that he would die without making it worth anything. If he had to feed the worms, let it be with a dozen of them. That he had sworn to himself, and he had never strayed from that conviction. He wanted to live badly, wanted to return and grow old and withered with Mary Ann while never seeing her as anything but beautiful, just like grand-da had told him it was how he saw Memaw from the moment he had first seen her to the day he laid her in the grave. But he knew that war required corpses, that Bloody Rider was unwilling to return from whence it came without an army of damned souls at its back.
And so he thought himself ready to fight and die, kill and live. He was a man, 17 years of age, and he would not back down or run in fear.
But when the sky had burst into flames, a dozen balls of burning wrath descending from space like the pirates had once done, his fourth greatest fear had turned into "what if they got reinforcements just as we are about to liberate ourselves again?"
However, currently, the greatest fear of him and everyone in his squad presently trying to make their way toward Betty's Theater Revue and cut off about a hundred of the pirate bastards from any supplies that got transported through the streets near it was getting brutally murdered by the Shadowhawk that was lumbering through the streets toward them with far more speed than it should have. And all they had to even tickle the damn thing was a sticky-satchel charge originally intended for any vehicle that would trundle through that they couldn't stop by shooting the driver.
And so, they did what anyone with half a brain would have done: shut up, hunker down, hurry up, and wait until the idiot was gone. With any luck, Lady McCullough, Smith, or John would arrive to kill the bastard. ...maybe not the latter, though; they were piloting Locusts, and those hadn't fared well outside ambushes within the last three years.
"Just gotta wait ah sec'nd," Johnathan murmured, the wisened old man with more white hairs than grey and a large bushy beard murmured to the rest of the squad. With over twice the years as the next-youngest person here, everyone looked up and listened to him and his advice. "The fella ain't gonna stop and plop down his ass, pro'bly catching a wink of breath before continuing on," he said, his voice even, making everyone relax slightly.
Still, it didn't prevent William from looking out the windows as sneakily as possible, trusting being on the ground floor and the 'mechs height from being seen. It was the only reason he saw the Shadowhawk turn toward where the streaks of fire had landed on the spaceport and fire its gun, the mighty thunder deafening to those on the ground, rattling windows and shaking the glasses in the cabinets nearby.
In his mind, that shot was the end of a life, probably several, and the grip on his gun tightened with anger.
It was not, as the Shadowhaw did the equivalent of a double-take, and prepared to unleash hell with its guns.
Because Exo-Strider #17 lowered its leg over two kilometers away, the mighty armored appendage dented after the shot had impacted it, yet practically left only cosmetic damage. If it could have been smug, the machine would have been. Instead, it had acted upon a threat registered, deflected the shot away from itself and the soldiers spreading out in a hurry beside it and took aim. Calculations ran against human reflexes...and won out.
Whereas the AC5 of the Shadowhawk was a mighty thunder of explosion and chemical fury, the heavy coilgun of the Exo-Strider threw its munition with the malicious cry of a thunderclap amidst a storm, the shaped munition reaching its target in the blink of an eye.
The arrogant representation of humanity's race to create physical gods of war staggered back, the shot tearing through internals after piercing armor, damage readouts blinking with silent shrieks in the pilot's mind and readouts, and a dozen systems suddenly ripped awake. In contrast, others were put to everlasting sleep, and a target was painted squarely onto the Exo-Strider, weapons leveled against the threat...
Only for a dozen more thunderclaps to ring out, adding to the symphony of a brewing storm, munitions impacting the mighty behemoth to stumble back, armor dented and crushed, internals sliced apart, coolant leaking like blood...and to fall into a building as another clap of thunder pierced glass, splattering offal and bone and blood and fat and life against a crushed cockpit.
And William watched as the Shadowhawk fell, the mighty machine that none safe Battlemechs could touch slain from an unseen foe...and he felt malicious joy course through his body, heart pumping adrenaline as he whopped, breaking the spell of shock felt by the others in squad who promptly joined in. How could they not? Whoever the strangers who had landed were, they were not on the side of the pirates. William only hoped he could buy the pilot who killed the 'hawk a beer in thanks, though he could only wonder who they were.
As it came to be, William found out within the hour, heavy steps impacting stone, in steady drumbeat gait, reaching Betty's Theater Revue (now painted with the blood of pirates, traitors, and one of his squad) in a hurry, making him poke his head out of a window toward the noise. Below, a dozen hulking suits of armor were running toward them, armor painted in a curious pattern of greys and blacks, their helmets painted a light blue with a spot of white at the front.
Before anyone could pull him back in, he raised his arm and hollered toward the armored figures, "HEY!" He hollered, waving an arm, making the running squad look in his direction as they stopped, though a few began to scan their surroundings instead. "WE'RE THE MILITIA! THANKS FOR KILLING THE SHADOWHAWK! GET IN HERE SO WE CAN TALK!"
A moment passed, helmets twisted toward each other, before one nodded and a thumbs up was sent back, the group swiftly moving toward him and the Revue.
William turned around a grin on his face...and froze as Johnathan looked at him with a gimlet eye. Yet, before anyone could open their mouths and speak, the front door was banged against, and a crackling voice spoke out, "Sergeant Emmerson here. Are we allowed to enter?"
Sending another frown at William, Johnathan spoke in his stead. "Ya' can ent'r, just keep yer guns away," he hollered, and the door swung open, allowing a dozen men in heavy armor to enter, their gazes sweeping over the assembled crowd of militiamen who stared right back with equal interest and wary curiosity. "Now, ah don't want to sound mighty ungrateful to ya', but who are ya' folks anyway?" Johnathan spoke up, walking forward to stand between the two groups. William realized that these men wore what could only be power armor as if they were walking straight out of fiction or a Star League movie, and the white blob on their helmets was writing. He hoped he could ask Jefferson what it meant; he was the only one here who could read.
"Sergeant Emmerson of and with the 4th Security Squad of the 'Furina De Fontaine,' 5th Regiment, 2nd Battalion, United Nations Detachment. You are part of the local planetary militia?" The man spoke, his voice as steady as it was clipped, and William couldn't help but feel...inadequate, especially as a few of the...whatever he had said they were looked at him in their big armors and weird guns.
"Yeah," Johnathan replied, relaxing ever so slightly. "Ah take it ya'all are here to help against the pirate scum?"
"Yes," Emmerson replied, cocking his head. "Did you not receive our transmission? We have been looping it for hours at this point." Blank stares answered him, with a muttered 'What's a transmission?' from the back. "...you have radios, right? That's how we even learned what was happening on your planet." He tried again, his body language radiating confusion.
"Oh, ya' mean one of those fancy port'ble ones? Ya' must be mighty rich to think us schmucks have one ready on the move," Johnathan replied with a chuckle, shaking his head. "Why don't 'cha settle down and relax for a spell? We just broke out the food and then you can tell us what is going on out there," he said, in a tone of a man who had to phrase something they thought would be followed as a request instead.
"... ... ... right," Emmerson replied after a moment when it had seemed that he wouldn't reply at all. "Command just told us to sit tight; they finally got your commanders on the line. Will probably take an hour or two for them to figure out how to proceed," he spoke, and the men behind him relaxed, stowing away their guns on their persons as everyone began to slowly try and mingle.
Yet... "You can take your helmets off, you know?" William said before his brain could catch up. "Can't eat food with them in the way, you know?" He nervously continued as people stared at him, though the man...(woman?) he had spoken to just chuckled.
"Can't do, little guy. We don't know what diseases you folk have, and we don't want to show up and save the day, only to die in droves afterward...or lay you folk down with one of ours," he...she...they, they said, knocking on their helmet. "That's one reason why these noggins are fully sealed. Our cough may be your plague, and vice versa. By the way, you look awfully young for a militia member. How old are you, nineteen, twenty?"
"Wh-no. I am seventeen," William replied, absentmindedly, staring at the gun of the soldier before him. He had already said they were weird, but they were really weird, like, "he couldn't see anything like a magazine" weird.
"Wait, you folk put a gun in a kid's hands?" The soldiers said, somewhere between shocked and affronted. "Are you serious? Kid, you should be in school, worrying about dating, not in war, and about getting shot. Did you just grab him from some house here or what?" They spoke, and William felt insulted.
"I joined three years ago!" He said, insulted. "And I don't need no school; I ain't one of them city-folk. Never went, never will! That thing makes you soft, said my Pa and his Pa, all the way back to landfall!" There was pride in his voice and nods all around him at the truth of it all...though the new folk just stared.
"Jesus," someone muttered.
Perspective Shift:
[] TAUBENMUTTER
[] Militia Commander Morris
[] Traitor
[] Pirate Lillyth
That was three years and some months ago.
Now, his greatest fear in life was being squashed underneath a 'mech's feet, pulped by its stride, or obliterated by its munitions before he could return to his Mary Ann and marry her for real, work on their farm, and grow a happy family that would never have to fight in war with his and her hands.
His second greatest fear was getting shot in the stomach by the pirates and the thrice-cursed traitors and being left to bleed out in agony over hours. He had seen it happen; he had been forced to watch a man bleed out just a street over because the damned monsters had a machine gun, and all he had to fight with was his grand-dads hunting shotgun.
His third was that he would die without making it worth anything. If he had to feed the worms, let it be with a dozen of them. That he had sworn to himself, and he had never strayed from that conviction. He wanted to live badly, wanted to return and grow old and withered with Mary Ann while never seeing her as anything but beautiful, just like grand-da had told him it was how he saw Memaw from the moment he had first seen her to the day he laid her in the grave. But he knew that war required corpses, that Bloody Rider was unwilling to return from whence it came without an army of damned souls at its back.
And so he thought himself ready to fight and die, kill and live. He was a man, 17 years of age, and he would not back down or run in fear.
But when the sky had burst into flames, a dozen balls of burning wrath descending from space like the pirates had once done, his fourth greatest fear had turned into "what if they got reinforcements just as we are about to liberate ourselves again?"
However, currently, the greatest fear of him and everyone in his squad presently trying to make their way toward Betty's Theater Revue and cut off about a hundred of the pirate bastards from any supplies that got transported through the streets near it was getting brutally murdered by the Shadowhawk that was lumbering through the streets toward them with far more speed than it should have. And all they had to even tickle the damn thing was a sticky-satchel charge originally intended for any vehicle that would trundle through that they couldn't stop by shooting the driver.
And so, they did what anyone with half a brain would have done: shut up, hunker down, hurry up, and wait until the idiot was gone. With any luck, Lady McCullough, Smith, or John would arrive to kill the bastard. ...maybe not the latter, though; they were piloting Locusts, and those hadn't fared well outside ambushes within the last three years.
"Just gotta wait ah sec'nd," Johnathan murmured, the wisened old man with more white hairs than grey and a large bushy beard murmured to the rest of the squad. With over twice the years as the next-youngest person here, everyone looked up and listened to him and his advice. "The fella ain't gonna stop and plop down his ass, pro'bly catching a wink of breath before continuing on," he said, his voice even, making everyone relax slightly.
Still, it didn't prevent William from looking out the windows as sneakily as possible, trusting being on the ground floor and the 'mechs height from being seen. It was the only reason he saw the Shadowhawk turn toward where the streaks of fire had landed on the spaceport and fire its gun, the mighty thunder deafening to those on the ground, rattling windows and shaking the glasses in the cabinets nearby.
In his mind, that shot was the end of a life, probably several, and the grip on his gun tightened with anger.
It was not, as the Shadowhaw did the equivalent of a double-take, and prepared to unleash hell with its guns.
Because Exo-Strider #17 lowered its leg over two kilometers away, the mighty armored appendage dented after the shot had impacted it, yet practically left only cosmetic damage. If it could have been smug, the machine would have been. Instead, it had acted upon a threat registered, deflected the shot away from itself and the soldiers spreading out in a hurry beside it and took aim. Calculations ran against human reflexes...and won out.
Whereas the AC5 of the Shadowhawk was a mighty thunder of explosion and chemical fury, the heavy coilgun of the Exo-Strider threw its munition with the malicious cry of a thunderclap amidst a storm, the shaped munition reaching its target in the blink of an eye.
The arrogant representation of humanity's race to create physical gods of war staggered back, the shot tearing through internals after piercing armor, damage readouts blinking with silent shrieks in the pilot's mind and readouts, and a dozen systems suddenly ripped awake. In contrast, others were put to everlasting sleep, and a target was painted squarely onto the Exo-Strider, weapons leveled against the threat...
Only for a dozen more thunderclaps to ring out, adding to the symphony of a brewing storm, munitions impacting the mighty behemoth to stumble back, armor dented and crushed, internals sliced apart, coolant leaking like blood...and to fall into a building as another clap of thunder pierced glass, splattering offal and bone and blood and fat and life against a crushed cockpit.
And William watched as the Shadowhawk fell, the mighty machine that none safe Battlemechs could touch slain from an unseen foe...and he felt malicious joy course through his body, heart pumping adrenaline as he whopped, breaking the spell of shock felt by the others in squad who promptly joined in. How could they not? Whoever the strangers who had landed were, they were not on the side of the pirates. William only hoped he could buy the pilot who killed the 'hawk a beer in thanks, though he could only wonder who they were.
As it came to be, William found out within the hour, heavy steps impacting stone, in steady drumbeat gait, reaching Betty's Theater Revue (now painted with the blood of pirates, traitors, and one of his squad) in a hurry, making him poke his head out of a window toward the noise. Below, a dozen hulking suits of armor were running toward them, armor painted in a curious pattern of greys and blacks, their helmets painted a light blue with a spot of white at the front.
Before anyone could pull him back in, he raised his arm and hollered toward the armored figures, "HEY!" He hollered, waving an arm, making the running squad look in his direction as they stopped, though a few began to scan their surroundings instead. "WE'RE THE MILITIA! THANKS FOR KILLING THE SHADOWHAWK! GET IN HERE SO WE CAN TALK!"
A moment passed, helmets twisted toward each other, before one nodded and a thumbs up was sent back, the group swiftly moving toward him and the Revue.
William turned around a grin on his face...and froze as Johnathan looked at him with a gimlet eye. Yet, before anyone could open their mouths and speak, the front door was banged against, and a crackling voice spoke out, "Sergeant Emmerson here. Are we allowed to enter?"
Sending another frown at William, Johnathan spoke in his stead. "Ya' can ent'r, just keep yer guns away," he hollered, and the door swung open, allowing a dozen men in heavy armor to enter, their gazes sweeping over the assembled crowd of militiamen who stared right back with equal interest and wary curiosity. "Now, ah don't want to sound mighty ungrateful to ya', but who are ya' folks anyway?" Johnathan spoke up, walking forward to stand between the two groups. William realized that these men wore what could only be power armor as if they were walking straight out of fiction or a Star League movie, and the white blob on their helmets was writing. He hoped he could ask Jefferson what it meant; he was the only one here who could read.
"Sergeant Emmerson of and with the 4th Security Squad of the 'Furina De Fontaine,' 5th Regiment, 2nd Battalion, United Nations Detachment. You are part of the local planetary militia?" The man spoke, his voice as steady as it was clipped, and William couldn't help but feel...inadequate, especially as a few of the...whatever he had said they were looked at him in their big armors and weird guns.
"Yeah," Johnathan replied, relaxing ever so slightly. "Ah take it ya'all are here to help against the pirate scum?"
"Yes," Emmerson replied, cocking his head. "Did you not receive our transmission? We have been looping it for hours at this point." Blank stares answered him, with a muttered 'What's a transmission?' from the back. "...you have radios, right? That's how we even learned what was happening on your planet." He tried again, his body language radiating confusion.
"Oh, ya' mean one of those fancy port'ble ones? Ya' must be mighty rich to think us schmucks have one ready on the move," Johnathan replied with a chuckle, shaking his head. "Why don't 'cha settle down and relax for a spell? We just broke out the food and then you can tell us what is going on out there," he said, in a tone of a man who had to phrase something they thought would be followed as a request instead.
"... ... ... right," Emmerson replied after a moment when it had seemed that he wouldn't reply at all. "Command just told us to sit tight; they finally got your commanders on the line. Will probably take an hour or two for them to figure out how to proceed," he spoke, and the men behind him relaxed, stowing away their guns on their persons as everyone began to slowly try and mingle.
Yet... "You can take your helmets off, you know?" William said before his brain could catch up. "Can't eat food with them in the way, you know?" He nervously continued as people stared at him, though the man...(woman?) he had spoken to just chuckled.
"Can't do, little guy. We don't know what diseases you folk have, and we don't want to show up and save the day, only to die in droves afterward...or lay you folk down with one of ours," he...she...they, they said, knocking on their helmet. "That's one reason why these noggins are fully sealed. Our cough may be your plague, and vice versa. By the way, you look awfully young for a militia member. How old are you, nineteen, twenty?"
"Wh-no. I am seventeen," William replied, absentmindedly, staring at the gun of the soldier before him. He had already said they were weird, but they were really weird, like, "he couldn't see anything like a magazine" weird.
"Wait, you folk put a gun in a kid's hands?" The soldiers said, somewhere between shocked and affronted. "Are you serious? Kid, you should be in school, worrying about dating, not in war, and about getting shot. Did you just grab him from some house here or what?" They spoke, and William felt insulted.
"I joined three years ago!" He said, insulted. "And I don't need no school; I ain't one of them city-folk. Never went, never will! That thing makes you soft, said my Pa and his Pa, all the way back to landfall!" There was pride in his voice and nods all around him at the truth of it all...though the new folk just stared.
"Jesus," someone muttered.
Perspective Shift:
[] TAUBENMUTTER
[] Militia Commander Morris
[] Traitor
[] Pirate Lillyth
- Location
- Fort Worth, TX
[X] Pirate Lillyth
[X] Pirate Lillyth
[X] Militia Commander Morris
[X] Militia Commander Morris
Last edited:
[X] Traitor
I'm very curious about their perspective
I'm very curious about their perspective
- Location
- Milky Way
[X] Pirate Lillyth
[X] Militia Commander Morris
[X] Militia Commander Morris
- Pronouns
- Zack
[X] Pirate Lillyth
[X] Militia Commander Morris
[X] Militia Commander Morris
HeroCooky
Unverified Monstergirl
You're from a genuine Golden Age, transported into Neo-Feudal Space Scavenger Hell With Tech-Cannibalism And Mech Mafia.
You are not Naive, you have Standards.
- Location
- Most likely California
[X] Militia Commander Morris
[X] Pirate Lillyth
Love me some Outsider POV
[X] Pirate Lillyth
Love me some Outsider POV
- Pronouns
- Zack
I wonder how the civilians of Furina De Fontaine will react to the events and interactions that are occurring on the planet?
HeroCooky
Unverified Monstergirl
A mix of "Oh, cool mecha" followed by "WHAT THE FUCK?!"
- Location
- Poland
[X] Militia Commander Morris
- Location
- Australia
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Militia Commander Morris
jwolfe_beta
Semi Genre-Savvy Overlord
- Location
- Canada
[X] Militia Commander Morris
Yeah, I can see a lot of the scientists, military experts, and sociologists etc wanting to get very drunk over the WTFery we end up encountering.
Last edited: