The Warring States of NPF

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-   -   Titanium Rhapsody: The Chosen 'Few' (http://www.nuklearforums.com/showthread.php?t=37416)

Red Mage Black 03-06-2010 07:46 PM

Titanium Rhapsody: The Chosen 'Few'
 
"All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission. Repeat. All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission."

Goes off over the intercom to the station. There aren't many pilots left in Arlia's Moon Base. Except for those with the chosen skills to assist in the recapture of planet Geneva after a hostile takeover by a rogue Arlian General. Exactly a year after, they have come to standstill, a cold war as you will. Geneva with defensive weapons and Arlia with offensive. Though now, Arlia has gone on the offensive, deciding to launch the first attack since the war began.

Generals Micon, Areo and Uldred have hand selected a couple pilots from their own squadrons, confident in their abilities to bring this rogue planet back under control. The only other activity going on inside the facility is mechanics preparing the mechs for launch and scientists running back and forth, making sure the fusion cores are stable enough to go.

Inside the briefing room, the three Generals await their selected pilots to brief them on their first mission. Another warning bellows over the loudspeaker.

"All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission. Repeat. All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission."

((Think meet and greet for the first posts... or whatever they're doing.))

Geminex 03-06-2010 09:20 PM

Ryan had been lounging in the mess hall, not really doing much of anything. He looked up from where he was sitting on one of the many, many benches (the base could support up to 20 000 Infantry, and the mess was accordingly large). "Goddammit." He muttered, but without much feeling. He wasn't a front-line pilot, and this certainly wasn't his mission. But he had been through this with his superiors. This assault needed some support, and he had been chosen to give it. He could do it. He was skilled. He'd survive. Or so they said. But, while he believed them to some extent (he knew he could probably stay alive), he also knew that there was more behind their decision to make him part of this force.
Put simply, he had realized that his value was diminishing. Test flights and low-risk combat situations had produced more than enough data to begin designing a second class of more user-friendly Godeye prototypes, and depending on how these tests went, the fully developed model might be in production in two years' time. His mech was still (probably) the most expensive piece of hardware on the battlefield, but he was no longer the epitome of several years' worth of research and engineering. He knew that he was suddenly still valuable, but no longer irreplaceable. They hadn't told him this, of course, but he had interacted with the Research department enough to see the motives behind their actions. He wasn't highly analytical for nothing. Though sometimes he wished he wasn't.
He had the feeling that, as the potential cost (him dying, mech getting destroyed) of having him support high-risk, high-value missions fell relative to the potential benefits of his support, his missions would be getting progressively more dangerous (which was logical), until, despite being under the command of R&D, he'd be a pure frontline unit.
And this awareness was going to stay with him (he knew himself), distract him during missions, keep him from enjoying any victory celebrations, since he'd be going "Perhaps you'll die next time..." to himself while his teammates cheered.
Enough brooding. He chastised himself as he walked through the briefing room's doors. You can at least try to focus on the here and now. And with that slightly schizophrenic encouragement he forced himself to look up, make eye contact with the various individuals in the room, smile and nod a few times. They'd have enough opportunities to realize he wasn't the bravest of the brave, for now he'd try to seem somewhat calm and fearless. "Evening. My name is Ryan Bell, Tac-Co extraordinaire. I will be endeavoring to make your actions this mission as efficient and streamlined as possible, though I'll be relying on you to keep me from going up in a mushroom cloud under enemy fire."

Astral Harmony 03-06-2010 11:44 PM

Alienna Crozbell closed her book and got out of bed, placing it back on the shelf with the other military guides on professionalism, how to be a leader, those kinds of things. Alienna sighed. "Military doctrine, strategy, history, my father's company. One day, just one day I'd love to cast it all aside and be a girl again."

"All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission. Repeat. All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission."

Alienna walked to her closet and was undressed and suited up in less than two minutes. Thanks to her father, Alienna was allowed to keep her hair long. There was more to her life than just the military thanks to that same man, and occasionally her beauty and grace, not her military expertise and lethalness, were required of her. Giving herself one final look in the mirror, Alienna hurried out of the room to run right into-

"Ack! Oh, I'm so sorry, are you hurt!?" Alienna said, then swallowed her words. It was Baxtar Grissom, who had proposed starting a relationship a week ago. Alienna dreaded putting people like him down, even if she didn't feel a thing for them.
"Not at all, Miss Crozbell. You've stayed in your quarters all day. Are you feeling all right?"
Alienna didn't care for him trying to be suave. She always dreaded it when guys tried to talk to her like this. "I had a headache this morning," she lied. "But I feel better now. Anyways, I need to go report for duty."
She tried to run, but Baxtar grabbed her shoulder. Ali was just about to give him an axe kick at the base of the neck, but thought and/or hoped she could resolve this more peacefully. He may not have been desireable, but he didn't deserve a beatdown. More like a firm talking-to.
"So, I know I'm being very forward," he started. "But I was wondering if you've thought about my proposal."

"All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission. Repeat. All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission."

Alienna didn't have time for suitors right now. "Look, I apologize from the bottom of my heart, but my father would never accept you even if I did, and I don't. I don't mean to put you down so hard, but I don't have any time to be diplomatic about it. You'll forgive me, won't you? Now if you'll excuse me."
If Baxtar was smart, he would know how it would really go down. It was going to be her father who choose a select few to have the honor of Ali's hand in marriage, and only then would Ali get to make a choice. Certainly not the way Ali would've kicked off her love life, but her life was carved into diamond the moment they discovered her mother was pregnant. Actually, now that Alienna thought about it, it wouldn't be long before she had to make that choice. Her father had already done his reviews and picked out the best of the best for his little girl. She wasn't looking forward to the day when she'd have to pick from that boring lineup, but now wasn't the time to think about it.

Alienna arrived at the briefing room and picked a seat at the front. To be honest, she was looking forward to the mission. At least on the battlefield, she didn't have to think about anything but annihilating the enemy. No boring, dispassionate suitors. No making sure she was current with modern style. No pretending she was happy with herself when she was at those stupid parties. Maybe if she was lucky, she'd end up sacrificing herself for the greater good. Then she could tell her father to go stuff it while she strolled through the pearly gates. Alienna couldn't help smiling at that prospect.

krogothwolf 03-07-2010 12:08 AM

Marcus was exercising in the gym after his morning training session. He had been stuck in a tactical training session and it always bored him to tears. He really didn't have a good grasp of tactics. It was up to his superiors to plan the course of actions, he would try to follow those orders the best he could. Usually didn't work out that way, but he did try. He was more of a point me at the enemy and I'll rip em to shreds kind of pilot. The exercising made him forget about how boring it was and kept him fit for piloting. He was looking forward to tomorrows sparring sessions though, they always made his blood flow.

"All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission. Repeat. All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission." The intercom blared in the gym.

Alright!Marcus thought to himselfFinally going to be able to take my mech out for a proper spin!

He got up and quickly showered himself off and dressed before heading out the door. Making sure to grab his father's medallion before heading out. Of all his things losing that was something he would never forgive himself for. He stopped and checked himself over quickly. Last time he showed up at a debriefing he got in hell for not looking professional enough. Satisfied he was adequately prepared, he put the medallion and tucked it under his shirt and started jogging down the hallway. He was excited about the prospect of going into battle but dreaded the idea of a briefing. They always assigned needless restrictions and orders for these missions. And usually they were mere escort ones, boring work but again, at least he was in his mech.

He entered the briefing room and looked around. He noticed a few of the other pilots entering and sitting down. He didn't really know them all to well though he was generally transferred around squads fairly often because of recklessness. He shrugged and picked a seat in the back, hoping to remain out of sight from his superiors as they always ragged on him for something.

Dracorion 03-07-2010 12:24 AM

"All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission. Repeat. All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission."

"Oh, come on!" Max had been in the middle of a shower when the announcement came. Today was supposed to be a boring day with no missions, so he figured he could spend the day having fun around the base and shower late. No such luck, apparently. He quickly turned the water off, dried himself off, got dressed, tried to make himself presentable and hurried out of the shower room and toward the briefing room. He feared he would get there late, but it turned out he arrived just in time. Just after he entered, someone else came in.

"Evening. My name is Ryan Bell, Tac-Co extraordinaire. I will be endeavoring to make your actions this mission as efficient and streamlined as possible, though I'll be relying on you to keep me from going up in a mushroom cloud under enemy fire." Said the newcomer. Max approached him and stretched out his hand. "Hi, I'm Max Raymond. I'm a melee specialist, so we'll probably be hearing a lot from each other. I'll do my best to keep you safe."

Overcast 03-07-2010 01:32 AM

The land was cruising by in a blur, Noon found himself cruising through the air with the wind running through his hair. In the clean morning sun he felt free as the smell of salt crossed his nostrils. He hit the coastline and floated over the water slowly drifting near the surface to run his hand through the water. He pulled up a moment, spiraling through the air before flipping back down toward the water, taking one deep breath before breaking the surface with a splashy dive. Down below the fishes swam about him in greeting. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a mermaid and as their eyes met they moved to each other with grace and their faces grew close...

"All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission. Repeat. All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission,"

BANG! Spencer's forehead met the bottom of his bunkmate's bunk as his nap was interrupted by the 1MC. He dropped back down into his mattress a second to rub the injury before wrenching himself out of bed and stumbling about trying to get his bearing. His brain was telling him to get to the brief before he got himself into any trouble, his guts were telling him to hit the mess first, and his eyes were telling him to go back to his bunk and just rest, someone else could tell him about the breif. As usual the brain had the right answer, but he knew at the very least his guts wouldn't shut up in the brief about what it wanted and his eyes might try to take control if the brief was too boring. Damn things don't know when they are beat. He stumbled his way out the door and down toward the briefing room; he caught a mirror on the way there and noted the big red mark on his forehead, he tried rubbing it some more but it just seemed to draw more attention to it so he was stuck with it before it took off naturally. Guess there was nothing to be done. He walked into the briefing room, seeing a few folks taking their seats and was keen to grab one in the back and chose not to introduce himself like a few other pilots to hide his shameful mark. Who knew maybe he'd be able to get through this whole thing without anyone talking about the head mark.

He sighed softly to himself as he laid his head into his hand, eyes closed to remember the dream. It wasn't the first time he had gotten that dream, and every time he never got to kiss the mermaid. He was willing to get over it though, there were some rather cute females here in the battle group, he could make due by being allowed permission to appreciate them being around. He opened his eyes and took a quick scan, caught Ali in the front row making him regret taking his nap and getting that stupid mark on his head. Ahh well who knew, maybe someone like Len would sit close by and tease him about looking so stupid.

A man can dream.

Geminex 03-07-2010 01:33 AM

Ryan took the hand, gave it a tentative shake. "Indeed. I feel safer already. Though you might be more suited to an... offensive role. How are you equipped, exactly?" If analysis prevailed, he reasoned, there was far less chance of him dwelling on potentially imminent death. He had resolved to analyze the hell out of this meeting. The people themselves seemed... well, human, so far. Not entirely militaristic, which was good. Though he was sure they'd become more professional once the actual battle began (and they got over being interrupted ahead of schedule), it was relaxing to see that those with (presumably) large amounts of front-line experience weren't freaking out or frozen blocks on pre-battle concentration.

Dracorion 03-07-2010 02:08 AM

"Well, yeah, I'm better on the offensive. But I figure the more I take out the less there are to take you out." Max replied, smiling reassuringly. From his handshake and his talk, he got a slight air of nervousness from this Tac-Com guy. "I pilot a Saint Walker Mark IV. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Saint Walker-types are pretty standard stuff, and usually used for long range combat. But the modifications I've made have really fleshed out it's hidden potential. It'll do great."

Looking around, Max tried to get a read on his fellow pilots. They were so diverse that he couldn't really tell how good they might be or how well they would work as a team. This mission could either go very wrong or very right. Still, he preferred to think positive. He had no indication that any of them were bad pilots, and they were all chosen because they were the best people for the job.

PyrosNine 03-07-2010 09:27 PM

"ZZZ...ZZzzzzZ..." went a little happy snore, with the snorer's hands wrapped around a flask of contraband liquor, the other hands on a half eaten ham sandwich, and the rest of the snoozer sprawled on a bed, legs kicking up in the air slightly. It had been a rough night, but the morning and afternoon had settled down nicely. If this kept up, there would need to be a night and post night nap session as well.

The alert had already come and gone, but such matters were unimportant to the blissful dreamer...sleeping beauty or not, sleep in of itself was a beauty. You just slept for five hours, no one busting your chops, yelling in your ear, no one trying to make life difficult for you. Dreams were nice, but dreamless sleep was the best. Or at least dreams you didn't remember were the best. Then, in the 'morning' (which was purely a subjective term), you got up, used that pension to buy something to eat, some laid back past time, and if you were unlucky, probably kill a few people. But maybe next morning would be a lucky one...

Blare blare blare, whine whine whine, sine sine sine. Klaxons were annoying. It was close by too, like they didn't want Len to sleep when it went off or something. Len reached for the gun on it's hip, his hip, her hip, whatever, and felt nothing but someone else's hip. It was still attached to Len's body, whatever was left of it, but the sensation of reaching for a hip that wasn't the same as the hip you had several months ago was still a striking experience.

Len opened his eyes, and saw what was wrong. She'd left her pants on the chair, with the gun still attached. Len instead reached for his flask, and downed whatever was left, with the dim realization that Len was awake.

Len was annoyed by this, but figured it'd take more effort to fall asleep in his present condition, and besides, they might throw him out of this deal if he slept on, and getting a job these days was so tiring...

Len crawled forwards, letting gravity pull the rest of itself off the bed, taking the sheets with him and crushing the ham sandwich under her body. There was mustard between her breasts now, and it was not a pleasant feeling. The having breasts part, not the mustard. Len always enjoyed the smell. Standing up was hard, but do able, and there were pants to stand up in awaiting at the chair. Slipping into a tight pair of pants, wiping off her chest with a kleenex, and pulling a t-shirt on, Len considered itself dressed. But since the military likely didn't, Len also grabbed a military jacket, and zipped it up tight. Sports bras were for people with breasts who ran.

Shoes were found, near the mustard smudged sandwich, and put on two different shades of feet. The sandwich was sacrificed to the trash gods, who made all the things Len put into the nice chute magically disappear, except for important things like Len's keys and gun.

Len checked the mirror. Fully clothed, no skin showing other than the face and the hands, for which there was a conveniently placed pair of gloves by the mirror to slip on. Len used to be able to run around wearing nothing but a t shirt and shorts, even on active duty, and now there were standards, practices, and taboos to cover up.

Len ignored the hat, and barged out the door, the room still a mess. But, with a key to lock it, a mess that no one would know about until she got back.

Len sauntered off to the briefing, with a yawn.

Bard The 5th LW 03-08-2010 03:57 PM

'Focus, don't sleep. Just keep reading. Just keep reading until you are called to service. Remain vigilant. Don't show any signs of fear, and never hesitate.'

These were the thought moving through Rory Rommel's mind. Rory was shut up in his room like usual and pouring over into a book. This was typically how he spent most of the free time he got. These books were normally on the subject of history or philosophy. They helped him get his mind off things and relax. As long as he thought about the events of the past, or about abstract concepts, his mind would be focused away from other, more angsty, topics. Absently, he flipped his bangs away from his eyes, revealing the dark rings that insomnia had brought him. Despite his distinct lack of sleep, Rory still kept a look of vigilance and focus about him. It was a bit unsettling.

"All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission. Repeat. All pilots report to the briefing room for your mission."

Immediately, Rory closed his book and rose from his seat and left his room. He was already in his uniform, so he didn't need any time to prepare, and he wouldn't hesitate under any circumstances. Wasting no time, he marched through the corridors and straight through the briefing room. A couple of people pointed at him on his way there, and he heard a snicker or two. He had gained some minor fame for being the 'reclusive super patriot' aboard the base, but he had gained even more fame for being the pilot of the 'crazy ass dradel mech.' Rory decided not to give them the satisfaction of an angry glare today. He was in to much of a hurry.

Rory briskly walked into the briefing room and seated himself rather seperately from the others. he scanned them briefly, but didn't have any doubts about their capabilities. They had passed, there was no reason to think down on them. Each one of them had been trained well and were experienced enough to stay alive. As long as each of them played their part and contributed to the group, there would be no problem. He hoped that he could keep his own advice in mind.


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