- Location
- Michigan, USA
Looks like the Shadowhawk decided to hit the gym.
Edit: Note, i didn't read the lore before posting.
Edit: Note, i didn't read the lore before posting.
Last edited:
The Lords of Ruin -- Battletech/Killzone
- Thread starter prometheus110
- Start date
- Crossover
Would ORDI be able to adopt Bomb-Pumped Lasers, Nuclear EFPs, and Casaba-Howitzers before the end of this quest or would we have to wait for the sequel?
prometheus110
Join Cayman-Global & be part of the 1E-9 percent!
- Location
- La Ballena City Raft
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This is the end of the quest.
…Apparently I've been repressing that reality harder than I thought.
Omega-Chris
The Friendly Ghost
Yea that happens sometimes. Though out of curiosity what did you think of the lore? I hope I have a decent explanation on why the Da Ying exists.
- Location
- Michigan, USA
Perfectly reasonable,
Omega-Chris
The Friendly Ghost
Yea that's indeed a cool variant though I might also switch out the ATM for something else to make it more distinct from the original variant. Maybe the Canopians would be the ones who made it as in all my designs (variants or originals) I have been trending them towards focusing heavily on mobile machines and stealth.
Rukatin
Malfunctioning NPC at best
- Location
- Land of Confusion
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Probably a clan LRM 10 instead of the ATM 9?
what update did the MAWLR first come up in again. I've been binge reading and I would like some help.
What do you mean? We've always had them
so are they a unit from killzone? because if so I feel like an utter idiot.
I've never even heard of killzone before this so please excuse my idioticy.
Omega-Chris
The Friendly Ghost
I was personally thinking of some medium pulse lasers for more accuracy during jumping.
Shinji117
Endless Troller
- Location
- Rokkenjima (Sydney)
- Pronouns
- He/Him
MAWLR
The MAWLR (Mounted Artillery Walker/Long Range)[1] is a massive Helghast war machine used by the Helghan Empire during the Second Extrasolar War. It was developed in the laboratories of Scolar Visari.[2] Less a mech and more akin to a battleship on legs, the MAWLR is perhaps the largest Helghast...
killzone.fandom.com
F0lkL0re
Officially not an Inquisitor
- Location
- Shetland
You know it occurs to me that we may have an easier time producing clan materials thanks to our grav tech since on one hand we can reach orbit easier and cheaper due to anti-grav and on the other hand gravity manipulation tech means that we can we can create zero/micro gravity environments ground side.
Omega-Chris
The Friendly Ghost
Indeed it's why I personally belief Endo-Steel supply is basically a non issue for us as we can just make planetside facilities that use anti-grav to manufacture it. Once Clan endo is figured out I won't be surprised we just upgrade those planet side facilitie to make clan endo ceasing manufacturing standard endo altogether.
The Battle of Lyndon - Part Eight
prometheus110
Join Cayman-Global & be part of the 1E-9 percent!
- Location
- La Ballena City Raft
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Shiloh, Asrik Prairie, Lyndon
ComStar Intervention Zone, Lyran Commonwealth
20 May 3051 (Day 14 of the Battle of Lyndon)
Someone had set the prairie on fire.
That much was obvious to Prakash even within the air-conditioned comfort of the turret; the city beyond his gunsight wreathed in thick black smoke that clung to the remains of life and industry which had long since turned to rot. Bracketed in glowing hieroglyphs courtesy of the Schrek's computer systems and illuminated by the wan light of an egg yolk sun, the towering skyscrapers loomed out of the wafting smoke like ghostly prehistoric trees, the building-corpses vanishing into the haze as they stood in neat rows either side of him. Lying between the buildings, a four-lane road beckoned, rusted groundcars strewn across the weathered ferrocrete as if scattered at random by some gargantuan child.
Unseen and unheard, Prakash could almost feel the conflagration raging outside the city, phantom heat stroking his sides and back despite the turret's chill.
Once upon a time—several centuries long past, he knew—Shiloh had been a bustling metropolis filled with life and energy, five million people going about their lives with little regard for the universe beyond their speck of dirt and its humdrum concerns. Now, Shiloh was a ghost town, a dirty bomb during the First Succession War responsible for killing most of the city's population and leaving it free for Lyndon's wildlife to populate. Staring blankly through his gunsight, his mind overlaying the details automatically, Prakash could picture the creeping vines, flocking birds, and scurrying prairie rats that now inhabited the city's streets; the radioactive dust transmuted into lead by time and the bones of the dead a fine powder scattered across the grasslands by a mournful wind.
Someone had set the prairie on fire, and he had a pretty good idea who.
"Acolyte Lambda Two Kallistos."
Prakash started as the words tumbled from his headphones, the dead city vanishing from sight as he pulled away from the eyepiece and blinked owlishly at his surroundings. Filled to bursting with glowing monitors, sturdy control panels, and Prakash's reedy form, the Schrek's turret was cramped beyond compare, careful movements a fact of life lest he unwittingly smash an elbow against surfaces hard enough to defeat small arms fire.
"ye- yes, Adept?" Prakash stuttered as he pawed at his headphones in a futile attempt to make them sit comfortably, his commander's stern tone dissolving with a laugh, Parvel and Jaz joining in a moment later.
"C'mon, Prakash, you gotta stop getting lost in the scope."
His cheeks flushed hotly. "S-Sorry, Adept Garcia. I was- I was-"
Prakash snapped his jaw shut with a click, pain flaring across his cut lips as he pursed them tight and a dull ache rising on his face where the bruises had not yet faded. Pausing, he clenched his fist until he felt the nails dig into the soft flesh of his palm.
"Sorry, Adept Garcia," he repeated levelly. "I was watching the k-k-kill zone."
"Chill, shooter," his unseen commander replied, the Terran's tone conveying an easy grin. About to respond, Prakash paused as a dull tone sounded in his ear, and Arturo Garcia continued on the private channel as if commenting on the weather.
"You good, Acolyte?" The armour commander asked companionably, his words softly pitched. "I know you just transferred in, but if anything's bothering you..."
In his mind's eye, Prakash could picture the fatherly smile he must be wearing, bright teeth framed by salt and pepper hair and tawny skin. He'd had a math teacher like that in school once upon a time: Mister Roland. He'd been a FedSun volunteer from some interstellar charity, a grandfather, and an avid hunter.
Prakash pumped his head, birdlike, before remembering where he was.
"Yes," he stammered out. "I mean, no, sir. I'm fine, sir. Thank you, sir."
Arturo fell quiet, a calculating silence falling over the line. In response, Prakash could only purse his lips tighter, the pain across his face proving a welcome distraction from the growing awkwardness.
"Alright," the tank commander drawled slowly. "Well, if you're ever not, my door's always open, Acolyte."
Another dull tone signalled the end of their private communique, calm quiet returning to his world. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, the gunner shook his head and cursed quietly.
Garcia was trying to help, Prakash told himself as he returned to the targeting sight, the ghostly city filling his vision once more.
In his brief time away from the sight, Shiloh had barely changed; a few strands of smoke blowing this way by the changing wind, the dark shapes of restless birds flying that way.
Prakash hissed under his breath. That the commander was trying was probably the worst part of the whole ordeal. More than most, Prakash knew that his was a nervous disposition unsuited for large crowds or loud events.
It wasn't, as he told himself for perhaps the millionth time, that he disliked people—he found their lives endlessly fascinating—but he preferred the sidelines to the spotlight. Listening to people rather than being listened to, as Mr Roland had said once. Unfortunately, he also happened to be a nervous stutterer, and in his experience, those kinds of differences drew notice from people, making him prone to stuttering.
In his life, he'd found only one thing that didn't make him stutter, and it had taken him from his home planet in the Periphery to the ComGuard and ensured-
His mind halted mid-spiral, his thought's teeth catching as a pale yellow flash suddenly blossomed in the depths of the smoky valley formed by Shiloh's long-dead buildings.
Instinctively, he clicked on his intercom and said, "Adept Garcia, possible contact bearing three-five-five. Range-"
"Unknown," the Schrek's commander finished for him, the lightness draining from his tone. "Good eye, Kallistos."
"Pig Iron: Report status starting with Jun. Go."
"Jun reporting," Parvel boomed after a short hesitation, the Lyran's voice almost as large as the man himself. "Reactor is green, and cooling systems idling at one percent over baseline. Smoke is trapping heat a little, is all."
Jaz—never Jasmin—was next. "Piggy's wheels'll spin, Evan. You wanna motor, give me a call, and we'll be out of this dump like a bat outta hell."
Not for the first time, Prakash blinked at the woman's loose way with the English language and thought to himself, She should be more respectful of technology's miracles.
Driving the thought from his mind, already aware that voicing such criticism was a losing battle with Jaz, he flicked his intercom on and spoke mechanically.
"Acolyte Kallistos here," he said as he worked a control panel with one hand, a slew of infographics brought to the screen with a few taps of the keyboard. "Turret reports green lights on all three prefire energisers, and the magnetic bottles are steady."
"How are we looking with range finding? Any more slippage?" Garcia asked, unprompted.
Absently, Prakash thumbed the rangefinding button on his joystick and glanced into the gunsight, emerald numbers flaring to life as a slender beam of invisible laser light struck a target he'd ranged a half dozen times over the past hour before.
"Negative on the slippage, Adept. Turret is clear to engage on your order."
The tank commander gave an approving grunt.
"Ha!" Parvel boomed. "Just let the dogs try us."
"Scorpions."
Prakash frowned as the words rattled around the turret, confusion marring his features for just a moment before—with a sharp stab of dread—he realised that he was the one who had spoken.
"Ehh?" The burly engineer asked as Prakash froze, fear flooding him at the wordless response.
"They ain't the dogs, Parv," Jaz drawled before Prakash could do more than work his jaw silently. "They're scorpions. Goliath Scorpions."
A Terran from somewhere called Alabama—a town or continent, Prakash wasn't sure which—Pig Iron's driver pronounced the word Goliath in three syllables.
Unburdened by etiquette, she continued. "Ain't your ears big enough to hear all this at briefing?"
The channel fell silent, and Prakash stopped breathing. For hours, or so it felt, no words were said, and then, with a loud bark, the engineer roared with laughter.
"Dogs, Scorpions, little vögelchen," Parvel huffed as the laughter died away. "Is all the same to me. I stop listening after they give the weather report."
All at once, the fear that held Prakash's stomach released its grip, the worms in his gut vanishing at the woman's unwitting rescue. As a companionable silence settled over the Pig Iron's crew, he idly activated another console. With a subliminal flicker, one of the bulky displays beside Prakash flicked over to an image of the world outside, the gunner squinting in the dimly lit turret as he tried to make out details from the compressed 360-degree view.
Cloistered several levels up a multi-story garage overlooking the long-abandoned street and its slowly rotting cars, the Pig Iron lay swaddled in a twilight darkness. Shaded by the smoke outside and the shadows within, the grey-painted tank was drenched in shadows so deep they swallowed the light. Here and there, moved by the wind or some unseen brush, dense grey camo netting gently stirred, the slow motion sending dappled light spots dancing across its metal hull like morning sunlight through a thick canopy. Unbidden, the scent of cordite and oak leaves brushed against his mind, the warmth of the summer sun against his skin and the weight of a rifle in his hands following soon after.
They were, Prakash knew, all but invisible from street level; Pig Iron and countless other machines emplaced throughout the city overlooking chokepoints and other kill zones. He'd even heard, through the grapevine, that the Precentor-Martial had activated reserve units personally, a host assembled to guard the victory point at Shiloh's heart against the ravening Clanners. He didn't believe it, though. The grapevine was always full of shit.
In the corner of his eye, something shifted.
Like a vision out of Dante's inferno, a shadow unfolded itself into the figure of a monstrous man, the camera's grainy image doing little to disguise the steel teeth that gleamed within the creature's ursine head. Snarling to the world, the thing rolled its shoulders and pulled a rifle from its back, the soundless image swinging its blunt wedge of a head this way and that before stepping into the light. Dismissed by cold reality, Prakash's fondly recalled hunt vanished as if it had never been, the sense-memories fading away in a heartbeat as the Bjorn stepped into the light.
"Whoa, lookit here, Art," Jaz started as more figures emerged from the shadows. "Our guard dogs got the scent."
"They aren't the only ones, Jaz," Adept Garcia replied, his measured words snatching Prakash's attention from the screen and quieting the driver.
"Word just came in: The Scorpions have given up on point Alpha and are heading here."
"Idiots."
"Dumbasses."
The Adept snorted. "I happen to agree, but they're coming anyway."
Flicking his intercom to the general channel, Prakash hazarded a question.
"D-d-do we know their strength, sir?"
"Scouts and tripwires put it at two Stars, at least," he replied. "Heavy ones, too. "
Prakash's mouth went dry as he processed the words, a phantom pain flaring across his body moments later. Unbidden, a memory of cloying heat and stinking sulfur engulfed him as images flashed across his mind. An engine growling in his ears painfully loud. Pounding footsteps thudding in his chest. Blazing heat scorching his bare skin. His hands threw open a hatch. A screaming face, pale and drawn. Blood spattering against his plastic mask.
He shook his head as if to banish flies, the half-remembered images retreating to the edges of his mind but sullenly.
"-ong we have to wait?" Jaz finished asking as Prakash snapped back to reality.
His unseen commander paused, the familiar sound of a drunk water bladder ringing out. "ETA is thirty minutes minimum. We got a company out there making life hell for the bastards, but unless Blake intervenes, they'll hit us sooner rather than later."
Jaz paused, then said, "Well, fuck."
Prakash couldn't agree more.
"I want Pig Iron ready to go in fifteen," the Adept said as if not hearing their response. "Do whatever you gotta do, then get ready for a hell of a fight."
"The fuck you said two Stars for, Art?" Jaz spat over the intercom as something rocked the Schrek and went whinnying away, the boom of distant—and not so distant—explosions a constant drumbeat within its armoured hull.
His face pressed into the gunsight hard enough he could feel the veins pulsing in his neck, Prakash ignored the driver's comment and instead slid his crosshairs over the Scorpion Summoner, the jade-green symbols turning a furious red as they settled over its cockpit.
"Target locked," he said in a voice steady as his heartbeat. "Firing."
Almost absently, he squeezed the trigger of his joystick, a sharp crack-boom ringing out and the eighty-ton vehicle rocking backwards as its Petrusite cannons spat death; three churning blue-white massed crossing the distance between Pig Iron and the Clan mech in the blink of an eye and striking it square in the head. A split-second later, the mech's cockpit detonated in a storm of writhing lightning, armoured panels and glass unpeeling from each other like C-bills from a stack as it crumpled to the ground mid-sprint.
Somewhere within the Schrek, Adept Garcia barked, "Target down! Gunner: Fire at will. Driver: Reposition."
"Roger."
"I hear ya!"
Face still pressed into the gunsight, Prakash braced himself as Jaz threw the heavy combat vehicle into reverse, the sudden lurch sending him jolting sideways as the Schrek's treads caught the asphalt. Well prepared for the manoeuvre, he cursed only a little as his crosshairs whipped over and past a skulking Adder and felt more than saw when the massive vehicle ran through a long-abandoned car, a flare of pain in his tailbone telling him he'd regret Jaz's enthusiastic interpretation of her orders in the morning.
Assuming it didn't get them killed, of course.
Before he could spend more time wondering if they'd survive the Terran's driving, the heavy vehicle slewed to a halt, the view in his sight whipping around with dizzying speed as the tank turned ninety degrees in only a few seconds, momentum slamming him against the side of his seat and knocking the breath out of him. For a heartbeat, Prakash had a clear view of Jaz's path of destruction through the multi-story garage—a Pig Iron-wide line traced through shattered concrete and crumpled cars—before he dismissed the view with a shake of his head. Sucking down a greedy lungful of air, the Acolyte wrenched his controls to the side and gazed through the viewport as the turret slewed towards the distant battlefield, hungry eyes scouring the smoke-covered city for a viable target.
From this part of the building, he could see a full star of Clan mechs picking their way through Shiloh's once-abandoned streets, flashing lasers and spiralling missile contrails marking where ComGuard forces stood against them. Picking a mech—an Ebon Jaguar—for his next target, Prakash slipped his reticle over its battle-scarred midsection and eyed the heat level on the side of the display.
A little high, he thought as he tracked the mech, his finger off the trigger.
Thumbing his intercom, he spoke. "Parvel, what is the status of our heatsinks?"
"We have a failure in secondary coolant pump," the Lyran replied instantly. "I am fixing now, but will take a minute, at least."
Inwardly, Prakash cursed. Outwardly, he replied, "Roger that. Keep me updated."
Letting the exchange drift out of his mind, Prakash calmed his rapid breathing and slipped a finger over the trigger, his crosshairs glowing a furious red as his eyes drank in the heavy mech's damage.
Too healthy for one shot, he thought as the bipedal machine let rip on a squad of infantry with its LBX-10, a handful of the armoured soldiers vanishing in a puff of greasy black smoke. Two will do it, though.
"Firing," he said into the intercom as he squeezed the trigger.
A split second later, another crack-boom echoed in the turret as scorching death struck the Ebon Jaguar on its shoulder, a halo of blue-white light surrounding the mech as streamers of Petrusite ravaged its hull and its gauss-equipped arm tore off. Peering through the gunsight, Prakash watched as the mech stumbled to the ground, sparks and shards of armour flying in all directions as it slid over the pockmarked ferrocrete.
Bloodlessly, he reported. "Target hit. Recharging."
"New contacts!" The Pig Iron's commander snapped momentarily, the words snagging Prakash's attention without mercy. "Two more Stars bearing two-three-zero."
"Way more than a couple'a Stars, Art!" Jaz added unhelpfully.
Imperturbable as ever, Parvel said, "Lower firing rate, please."
Driving the exchange from his mind, the young gunner breathed in and out as he had done on a hundred hunts before, the world around him constricting to a single point on the mech's shoulder—its sparking cables dulled by the gunsight's built-in filters. Slowly, buying time for the coolant systems to continue their vital work, he walked the jade-green crosshairs onto his target as it began to clamber to its feet before shifting his aim upwards. Air hissing between his lips, time slowed to a crawl as Prakash squeezed the trigger.
There was a flash of blue-white light and a clap of thunder. Burning and blazing, the triple burst of ravening Petrusite lept between the Pig Iron and the mech and struck it square in its exposed flank. Hungry for energy, questing fingers of the queer substance dug into the exposed workings of the marvellous Clan mech and scoured it to the bone; glutinous globs of glowing metal falling from the humanoid war machine and splattering against the ground. For the briefest moment, it seemed to Prakash as if the machine would endure the agonies put against it, and then, with a flash of light, its reactor gave way, a spear of fusion fire bursting up through the mech's head and incinerating it in the blink of an eye.
"Target down," he stated plainly. "Retargeting."
Scouring over the battlefield, Prakash noted and dismissed a half dozen targets in less time than it took for the Pig Iron's refitted weapons to recharge, the hair on the nape of his neck going from flat to standing on its end as capacitors cycled and Petrusite energised.
"Retargeting," he said as he spotted a Goliath Scorpion Fire Moth dancing through the streets, bombs and bullets falling around it.
"Firing."
With a bone-jarring crash, the mech slammed to the ground as two of his shots connected, momentum carrying the light mech forward for a hundred meters and ploughing it face-first into a long abandoned building.
Four, a part of him whispered as the mech failed to move, a white-painted Shadowhawk pouncing on the fallen mech and carving into its back with a barrage of autocannon rounds.
"Retargeting," he repeated as a pristine Kit Fox appeared in his scopes, a stream of missiles pouring out from the battle mech's limbs as it fired wave after wave of LRMs at unseens targets.
"Firing."
In a flash of light so bright it tripped his gunsight's anti-glare protection, the support mech exploded, Petrusite, ammo bins, and a fusion reactor catching light all but simultaneously and melting the asphalt beneath its feet.
"Retargeting."
A Timber Wolf lurched out of the smoke on spears of fusion fire, its jump jets carrying it in a shallow arc over the low buildings littering the battlefield, pulse lasers strobing and machine guns chattering as it fired at a battered Hunchback.
"Firing."
The mech died as its cockpit peeled apart in a storm of energy, greasy smoke spilling into the air as its fusion jets cut out, and it plummeted to the ground.
"Retargeting."
A Mad Dog stalked through the streets, rocket fire from a dozen yawning windows peppering it with explosions as it sprayed its lasers in an impotent rage.
"Firing."
The sixty-tonner collapsed as its leg came away at the knee, the street filling with dust as it pulverised an ancient storefront, and the scattered ground fire redoubling in strength as the infantry seized the advantage.
"Retargeting."
A Warhawk busy dueling a Highlander.
"Firing."
Its arm spun off into the street, its white-painted opponent taking advantage of its pilot's shock to jam a gauss rifle under its cockpit and fire.
"Retarge-"
Prakash paused.
Striding through Shiloh with an aura of invincibility surrounding it, the mottled grey Atlas strode boldly through the war-torn city, twisting tendrils of blue-grey smoke caressing the hundred-ton mech and rendering it near-invisible to the naked eye. Humanoid in form with a skull mask where its face should be, the captured mech walked through the streets with iron certainty of its immortality, shrapnel and other detritus ricocheting off its crudely repainted armour in a shower of sparks.
It was a figure from myth. It was death on legs. It was, Prakash thought, hard to miss.
"Retargeting," he repeated coolly as he readied himself for another kill.
ComStar Intervention Zone, Lyran Commonwealth
20 May 3051 (Day 14 of the Battle of Lyndon)
Someone had set the prairie on fire.
That much was obvious to Prakash even within the air-conditioned comfort of the turret; the city beyond his gunsight wreathed in thick black smoke that clung to the remains of life and industry which had long since turned to rot. Bracketed in glowing hieroglyphs courtesy of the Schrek's computer systems and illuminated by the wan light of an egg yolk sun, the towering skyscrapers loomed out of the wafting smoke like ghostly prehistoric trees, the building-corpses vanishing into the haze as they stood in neat rows either side of him. Lying between the buildings, a four-lane road beckoned, rusted groundcars strewn across the weathered ferrocrete as if scattered at random by some gargantuan child.
Unseen and unheard, Prakash could almost feel the conflagration raging outside the city, phantom heat stroking his sides and back despite the turret's chill.
Once upon a time—several centuries long past, he knew—Shiloh had been a bustling metropolis filled with life and energy, five million people going about their lives with little regard for the universe beyond their speck of dirt and its humdrum concerns. Now, Shiloh was a ghost town, a dirty bomb during the First Succession War responsible for killing most of the city's population and leaving it free for Lyndon's wildlife to populate. Staring blankly through his gunsight, his mind overlaying the details automatically, Prakash could picture the creeping vines, flocking birds, and scurrying prairie rats that now inhabited the city's streets; the radioactive dust transmuted into lead by time and the bones of the dead a fine powder scattered across the grasslands by a mournful wind.
Someone had set the prairie on fire, and he had a pretty good idea who.
"Acolyte Lambda Two Kallistos."
Prakash started as the words tumbled from his headphones, the dead city vanishing from sight as he pulled away from the eyepiece and blinked owlishly at his surroundings. Filled to bursting with glowing monitors, sturdy control panels, and Prakash's reedy form, the Schrek's turret was cramped beyond compare, careful movements a fact of life lest he unwittingly smash an elbow against surfaces hard enough to defeat small arms fire.
"ye- yes, Adept?" Prakash stuttered as he pawed at his headphones in a futile attempt to make them sit comfortably, his commander's stern tone dissolving with a laugh, Parvel and Jaz joining in a moment later.
"C'mon, Prakash, you gotta stop getting lost in the scope."
His cheeks flushed hotly. "S-Sorry, Adept Garcia. I was- I was-"
Prakash snapped his jaw shut with a click, pain flaring across his cut lips as he pursed them tight and a dull ache rising on his face where the bruises had not yet faded. Pausing, he clenched his fist until he felt the nails dig into the soft flesh of his palm.
"Sorry, Adept Garcia," he repeated levelly. "I was watching the k-k-kill zone."
"Chill, shooter," his unseen commander replied, the Terran's tone conveying an easy grin. About to respond, Prakash paused as a dull tone sounded in his ear, and Arturo Garcia continued on the private channel as if commenting on the weather.
"You good, Acolyte?" The armour commander asked companionably, his words softly pitched. "I know you just transferred in, but if anything's bothering you..."
In his mind's eye, Prakash could picture the fatherly smile he must be wearing, bright teeth framed by salt and pepper hair and tawny skin. He'd had a math teacher like that in school once upon a time: Mister Roland. He'd been a FedSun volunteer from some interstellar charity, a grandfather, and an avid hunter.
Prakash pumped his head, birdlike, before remembering where he was.
"Yes," he stammered out. "I mean, no, sir. I'm fine, sir. Thank you, sir."
Arturo fell quiet, a calculating silence falling over the line. In response, Prakash could only purse his lips tighter, the pain across his face proving a welcome distraction from the growing awkwardness.
"Alright," the tank commander drawled slowly. "Well, if you're ever not, my door's always open, Acolyte."
Another dull tone signalled the end of their private communique, calm quiet returning to his world. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, the gunner shook his head and cursed quietly.
Garcia was trying to help, Prakash told himself as he returned to the targeting sight, the ghostly city filling his vision once more.
In his brief time away from the sight, Shiloh had barely changed; a few strands of smoke blowing this way by the changing wind, the dark shapes of restless birds flying that way.
Prakash hissed under his breath. That the commander was trying was probably the worst part of the whole ordeal. More than most, Prakash knew that his was a nervous disposition unsuited for large crowds or loud events.
It wasn't, as he told himself for perhaps the millionth time, that he disliked people—he found their lives endlessly fascinating—but he preferred the sidelines to the spotlight. Listening to people rather than being listened to, as Mr Roland had said once. Unfortunately, he also happened to be a nervous stutterer, and in his experience, those kinds of differences drew notice from people, making him prone to stuttering.
In his life, he'd found only one thing that didn't make him stutter, and it had taken him from his home planet in the Periphery to the ComGuard and ensured-
His mind halted mid-spiral, his thought's teeth catching as a pale yellow flash suddenly blossomed in the depths of the smoky valley formed by Shiloh's long-dead buildings.
Instinctively, he clicked on his intercom and said, "Adept Garcia, possible contact bearing three-five-five. Range-"
"Unknown," the Schrek's commander finished for him, the lightness draining from his tone. "Good eye, Kallistos."
"Pig Iron: Report status starting with Jun. Go."
"Jun reporting," Parvel boomed after a short hesitation, the Lyran's voice almost as large as the man himself. "Reactor is green, and cooling systems idling at one percent over baseline. Smoke is trapping heat a little, is all."
Jaz—never Jasmin—was next. "Piggy's wheels'll spin, Evan. You wanna motor, give me a call, and we'll be out of this dump like a bat outta hell."
Not for the first time, Prakash blinked at the woman's loose way with the English language and thought to himself, She should be more respectful of technology's miracles.
Driving the thought from his mind, already aware that voicing such criticism was a losing battle with Jaz, he flicked his intercom on and spoke mechanically.
"Acolyte Kallistos here," he said as he worked a control panel with one hand, a slew of infographics brought to the screen with a few taps of the keyboard. "Turret reports green lights on all three prefire energisers, and the magnetic bottles are steady."
"How are we looking with range finding? Any more slippage?" Garcia asked, unprompted.
Absently, Prakash thumbed the rangefinding button on his joystick and glanced into the gunsight, emerald numbers flaring to life as a slender beam of invisible laser light struck a target he'd ranged a half dozen times over the past hour before.
"Negative on the slippage, Adept. Turret is clear to engage on your order."
The tank commander gave an approving grunt.
"Ha!" Parvel boomed. "Just let the dogs try us."
"Scorpions."
Prakash frowned as the words rattled around the turret, confusion marring his features for just a moment before—with a sharp stab of dread—he realised that he was the one who had spoken.
"Ehh?" The burly engineer asked as Prakash froze, fear flooding him at the wordless response.
"They ain't the dogs, Parv," Jaz drawled before Prakash could do more than work his jaw silently. "They're scorpions. Goliath Scorpions."
A Terran from somewhere called Alabama—a town or continent, Prakash wasn't sure which—Pig Iron's driver pronounced the word Goliath in three syllables.
Unburdened by etiquette, she continued. "Ain't your ears big enough to hear all this at briefing?"
The channel fell silent, and Prakash stopped breathing. For hours, or so it felt, no words were said, and then, with a loud bark, the engineer roared with laughter.
"Dogs, Scorpions, little vögelchen," Parvel huffed as the laughter died away. "Is all the same to me. I stop listening after they give the weather report."
All at once, the fear that held Prakash's stomach released its grip, the worms in his gut vanishing at the woman's unwitting rescue. As a companionable silence settled over the Pig Iron's crew, he idly activated another console. With a subliminal flicker, one of the bulky displays beside Prakash flicked over to an image of the world outside, the gunner squinting in the dimly lit turret as he tried to make out details from the compressed 360-degree view.
Cloistered several levels up a multi-story garage overlooking the long-abandoned street and its slowly rotting cars, the Pig Iron lay swaddled in a twilight darkness. Shaded by the smoke outside and the shadows within, the grey-painted tank was drenched in shadows so deep they swallowed the light. Here and there, moved by the wind or some unseen brush, dense grey camo netting gently stirred, the slow motion sending dappled light spots dancing across its metal hull like morning sunlight through a thick canopy. Unbidden, the scent of cordite and oak leaves brushed against his mind, the warmth of the summer sun against his skin and the weight of a rifle in his hands following soon after.
They were, Prakash knew, all but invisible from street level; Pig Iron and countless other machines emplaced throughout the city overlooking chokepoints and other kill zones. He'd even heard, through the grapevine, that the Precentor-Martial had activated reserve units personally, a host assembled to guard the victory point at Shiloh's heart against the ravening Clanners. He didn't believe it, though. The grapevine was always full of shit.
In the corner of his eye, something shifted.
Like a vision out of Dante's inferno, a shadow unfolded itself into the figure of a monstrous man, the camera's grainy image doing little to disguise the steel teeth that gleamed within the creature's ursine head. Snarling to the world, the thing rolled its shoulders and pulled a rifle from its back, the soundless image swinging its blunt wedge of a head this way and that before stepping into the light. Dismissed by cold reality, Prakash's fondly recalled hunt vanished as if it had never been, the sense-memories fading away in a heartbeat as the Bjorn stepped into the light.
"Whoa, lookit here, Art," Jaz started as more figures emerged from the shadows. "Our guard dogs got the scent."
"They aren't the only ones, Jaz," Adept Garcia replied, his measured words snatching Prakash's attention from the screen and quieting the driver.
"Word just came in: The Scorpions have given up on point Alpha and are heading here."
"Idiots."
"Dumbasses."
The Adept snorted. "I happen to agree, but they're coming anyway."
Flicking his intercom to the general channel, Prakash hazarded a question.
"D-d-do we know their strength, sir?"
"Scouts and tripwires put it at two Stars, at least," he replied. "Heavy ones, too. "
Prakash's mouth went dry as he processed the words, a phantom pain flaring across his body moments later. Unbidden, a memory of cloying heat and stinking sulfur engulfed him as images flashed across his mind. An engine growling in his ears painfully loud. Pounding footsteps thudding in his chest. Blazing heat scorching his bare skin. His hands threw open a hatch. A screaming face, pale and drawn. Blood spattering against his plastic mask.
He shook his head as if to banish flies, the half-remembered images retreating to the edges of his mind but sullenly.
"-ong we have to wait?" Jaz finished asking as Prakash snapped back to reality.
His unseen commander paused, the familiar sound of a drunk water bladder ringing out. "ETA is thirty minutes minimum. We got a company out there making life hell for the bastards, but unless Blake intervenes, they'll hit us sooner rather than later."
Jaz paused, then said, "Well, fuck."
Prakash couldn't agree more.
"I want Pig Iron ready to go in fifteen," the Adept said as if not hearing their response. "Do whatever you gotta do, then get ready for a hell of a fight."
******
"The fuck you said two Stars for, Art?" Jaz spat over the intercom as something rocked the Schrek and went whinnying away, the boom of distant—and not so distant—explosions a constant drumbeat within its armoured hull.
His face pressed into the gunsight hard enough he could feel the veins pulsing in his neck, Prakash ignored the driver's comment and instead slid his crosshairs over the Scorpion Summoner, the jade-green symbols turning a furious red as they settled over its cockpit.
"Target locked," he said in a voice steady as his heartbeat. "Firing."
Almost absently, he squeezed the trigger of his joystick, a sharp crack-boom ringing out and the eighty-ton vehicle rocking backwards as its Petrusite cannons spat death; three churning blue-white massed crossing the distance between Pig Iron and the Clan mech in the blink of an eye and striking it square in the head. A split-second later, the mech's cockpit detonated in a storm of writhing lightning, armoured panels and glass unpeeling from each other like C-bills from a stack as it crumpled to the ground mid-sprint.
Somewhere within the Schrek, Adept Garcia barked, "Target down! Gunner: Fire at will. Driver: Reposition."
"Roger."
"I hear ya!"
Face still pressed into the gunsight, Prakash braced himself as Jaz threw the heavy combat vehicle into reverse, the sudden lurch sending him jolting sideways as the Schrek's treads caught the asphalt. Well prepared for the manoeuvre, he cursed only a little as his crosshairs whipped over and past a skulking Adder and felt more than saw when the massive vehicle ran through a long-abandoned car, a flare of pain in his tailbone telling him he'd regret Jaz's enthusiastic interpretation of her orders in the morning.
Assuming it didn't get them killed, of course.
Before he could spend more time wondering if they'd survive the Terran's driving, the heavy vehicle slewed to a halt, the view in his sight whipping around with dizzying speed as the tank turned ninety degrees in only a few seconds, momentum slamming him against the side of his seat and knocking the breath out of him. For a heartbeat, Prakash had a clear view of Jaz's path of destruction through the multi-story garage—a Pig Iron-wide line traced through shattered concrete and crumpled cars—before he dismissed the view with a shake of his head. Sucking down a greedy lungful of air, the Acolyte wrenched his controls to the side and gazed through the viewport as the turret slewed towards the distant battlefield, hungry eyes scouring the smoke-covered city for a viable target.
From this part of the building, he could see a full star of Clan mechs picking their way through Shiloh's once-abandoned streets, flashing lasers and spiralling missile contrails marking where ComGuard forces stood against them. Picking a mech—an Ebon Jaguar—for his next target, Prakash slipped his reticle over its battle-scarred midsection and eyed the heat level on the side of the display.
A little high, he thought as he tracked the mech, his finger off the trigger.
Thumbing his intercom, he spoke. "Parvel, what is the status of our heatsinks?"
"We have a failure in secondary coolant pump," the Lyran replied instantly. "I am fixing now, but will take a minute, at least."
Inwardly, Prakash cursed. Outwardly, he replied, "Roger that. Keep me updated."
Letting the exchange drift out of his mind, Prakash calmed his rapid breathing and slipped a finger over the trigger, his crosshairs glowing a furious red as his eyes drank in the heavy mech's damage.
Too healthy for one shot, he thought as the bipedal machine let rip on a squad of infantry with its LBX-10, a handful of the armoured soldiers vanishing in a puff of greasy black smoke. Two will do it, though.
"Firing," he said into the intercom as he squeezed the trigger.
A split second later, another crack-boom echoed in the turret as scorching death struck the Ebon Jaguar on its shoulder, a halo of blue-white light surrounding the mech as streamers of Petrusite ravaged its hull and its gauss-equipped arm tore off. Peering through the gunsight, Prakash watched as the mech stumbled to the ground, sparks and shards of armour flying in all directions as it slid over the pockmarked ferrocrete.
Bloodlessly, he reported. "Target hit. Recharging."
"New contacts!" The Pig Iron's commander snapped momentarily, the words snagging Prakash's attention without mercy. "Two more Stars bearing two-three-zero."
"Way more than a couple'a Stars, Art!" Jaz added unhelpfully.
Imperturbable as ever, Parvel said, "Lower firing rate, please."
Driving the exchange from his mind, the young gunner breathed in and out as he had done on a hundred hunts before, the world around him constricting to a single point on the mech's shoulder—its sparking cables dulled by the gunsight's built-in filters. Slowly, buying time for the coolant systems to continue their vital work, he walked the jade-green crosshairs onto his target as it began to clamber to its feet before shifting his aim upwards. Air hissing between his lips, time slowed to a crawl as Prakash squeezed the trigger.
There was a flash of blue-white light and a clap of thunder. Burning and blazing, the triple burst of ravening Petrusite lept between the Pig Iron and the mech and struck it square in its exposed flank. Hungry for energy, questing fingers of the queer substance dug into the exposed workings of the marvellous Clan mech and scoured it to the bone; glutinous globs of glowing metal falling from the humanoid war machine and splattering against the ground. For the briefest moment, it seemed to Prakash as if the machine would endure the agonies put against it, and then, with a flash of light, its reactor gave way, a spear of fusion fire bursting up through the mech's head and incinerating it in the blink of an eye.
"Target down," he stated plainly. "Retargeting."
Scouring over the battlefield, Prakash noted and dismissed a half dozen targets in less time than it took for the Pig Iron's refitted weapons to recharge, the hair on the nape of his neck going from flat to standing on its end as capacitors cycled and Petrusite energised.
"Retargeting," he said as he spotted a Goliath Scorpion Fire Moth dancing through the streets, bombs and bullets falling around it.
"Firing."
With a bone-jarring crash, the mech slammed to the ground as two of his shots connected, momentum carrying the light mech forward for a hundred meters and ploughing it face-first into a long abandoned building.
Four, a part of him whispered as the mech failed to move, a white-painted Shadowhawk pouncing on the fallen mech and carving into its back with a barrage of autocannon rounds.
"Retargeting," he repeated as a pristine Kit Fox appeared in his scopes, a stream of missiles pouring out from the battle mech's limbs as it fired wave after wave of LRMs at unseens targets.
"Firing."
In a flash of light so bright it tripped his gunsight's anti-glare protection, the support mech exploded, Petrusite, ammo bins, and a fusion reactor catching light all but simultaneously and melting the asphalt beneath its feet.
"Retargeting."
A Timber Wolf lurched out of the smoke on spears of fusion fire, its jump jets carrying it in a shallow arc over the low buildings littering the battlefield, pulse lasers strobing and machine guns chattering as it fired at a battered Hunchback.
"Firing."
The mech died as its cockpit peeled apart in a storm of energy, greasy smoke spilling into the air as its fusion jets cut out, and it plummeted to the ground.
"Retargeting."
A Mad Dog stalked through the streets, rocket fire from a dozen yawning windows peppering it with explosions as it sprayed its lasers in an impotent rage.
"Firing."
The sixty-tonner collapsed as its leg came away at the knee, the street filling with dust as it pulverised an ancient storefront, and the scattered ground fire redoubling in strength as the infantry seized the advantage.
"Retargeting."
A Warhawk busy dueling a Highlander.
"Firing."
Its arm spun off into the street, its white-painted opponent taking advantage of its pilot's shock to jam a gauss rifle under its cockpit and fire.
"Retarge-"
Prakash paused.
Striding through Shiloh with an aura of invincibility surrounding it, the mottled grey Atlas strode boldly through the war-torn city, twisting tendrils of blue-grey smoke caressing the hundred-ton mech and rendering it near-invisible to the naked eye. Humanoid in form with a skull mask where its face should be, the captured mech walked through the streets with iron certainty of its immortality, shrapnel and other detritus ricocheting off its crudely repainted armour in a shower of sparks.
It was a figure from myth. It was death on legs. It was, Prakash thought, hard to miss.
"Retargeting," he repeated coolly as he readied himself for another kill.
prometheus110
Join Cayman-Global & be part of the 1E-9 percent!
- Location
- La Ballena City Raft
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I'm not super happy with this section, but I couldn't figure out where the story should go from that point and how to communicate and I'm cheaping out. The ComGuard did successfulyl hold both points, though, so there's that.
Regardless, expect updates to be a bit delayed due to Christmas. Part nine might be a bit special depending on how I decide to present it, but the way things turned out means that things might not be what people expect.
Regardless, expect updates to be a bit delayed due to Christmas. Part nine might be a bit special depending on how I decide to present it, but the way things turned out means that things might not be what people expect.
- Location
- USA
Fucking hell the Scorpions are getting chewed up. Really puts into perspective how powerful petrusite is that a full salvo can severely damage if not destroy Clan Omnis. God knows I wouldn't want to face down a heavy star in anything less then a Royal Alicorn.
neutronium95
Mad Rocketeer
- Location
- The test site
- Pronouns
- She/Her
That was great. Prakash is more than a bit terrifying. Only one mech needed more than a single salvo to go down. And he seemed to hit a lot more headshots than I'd typically expect.
- Location
- SEAsia
- Pronouns
- Thou
Ahhh, Comstar's slowly getting attached to Petrusite. 
Omega-Chris
The Friendly Ghost
As someone who tried petrusite in a table top game I can say this chapter was really accurate. Like 3 hits and some luck on which crits you get can completely screw over a enemy mech or outright destroy it especially if they use XL engines.
It's likely because of the existence of Petrusite weapons that XL engines will be a lot less common in this timeline. At least until armor that protects better against trough armor crits like hardened and ferro-lamellor become more common. Heck it's for this reason why I pushed us to research ferro-carbide armor (which will get us lamellor) as in the coming decades the other powers will start developing there own pet weapons and it's smart to have defenses ready for when that happens.
To bad there going to have to give most of it back after the gambit.Ahhh, Comstar's slowly getting attached to Petrusite.
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As someone who tried petrusite in a table top game I can say this chapter was really accurate. Like 3 hits and some luck on which crits you get can completely screw over a enemy mech or outright destroy it especially if they use XL engines.
It's likely because of the existence of Petrusite weapons that XL engines will be a lot less common in this timeline. At least until armor that protects better against trough armor crits like hardened and ferro-lamellor become more common. Heck it's for this reason why I pushed us to research ferro-carbide armor (which will get us lamellor) in the coming decades the other powers will start developing there own pet weapons and it's smart to have defenses ready for when that happens.
To bad there going to have to give most of it back after the gambit.
I expect Armored Components are going to become far more popular than in the cannon timeline. The ability to soak additional crits without any effects is game changing when you have to deal with Petrusite weapons
XXL Engines are going to be straight up ignored here then. On the other hand, perhaps compact fusion engines may be developed earlier?