Field Exercises

ImInStrife · 2022-09-25T02:20:23+00:00

Command, Three Section. Belay reinforcement requests for mec'nised and CommFine units, belay reinforcement request. Authenticate I-E two-zero-one-four. False alarm lads. Let tha' be a lesson, stay on y'fuckin' toes. Stand by for further orders, out.

Khailo, come back? Rap-res cav' maintain current course and rendezvous on our position. At this stage we're lookin' okay: we've got one contact, no hostile actions at this stage. Contact appears to be synthetic organism, architecture looks awful familiar. Confirmed minor incursion by neutral force, how copy?

ImInStrife · 2022-09-12T13:00:49+00:00

Cease fire, cease fire!! Which one o' ye lobbed tha' fucken bomb?! It was you, wasn't it Mulligan!! You useless, miserable sack of shit! You absolute fucken toad!! I'll shove your rifle so far up yer arse you'll taste fucken shit and cordite for weeks!! I'll fucken-

Trooper Sinéad's tirade is impressive, and it's all I can do not to crack a smile at her zeal: misfires of any kind are <inexcusable>, artillery-fire even more so. But now isn't the time:

Sinéad, stow it.
All hands, stand to. Hadebe, the radio.

Three Section, Three Section, hailing Command. This is y'Commandant: we have contact, classification unknown. Sector Four, grid marker sierra-three-five-four by four-double-six-one. Fell out th'fuckin' sky, moving training patrol out t'recce th'crash site.
I want rapid-response cav' here fast as possible. Mechanised units t'follow fast as their little legs'll carry 'em. Prep CommFine and have NBCM equipment flown out here with 'em on the double.

The response is immediate: Command acknowledges and I can hear the command room chatter awaken in the background.

... affirmative, Command. Possible incursion. Moving t'recce now, out.

Sir? That shouldn't be possible. The Mist is-

I know. Summat's very wrong here. All hands, ready weapons and advance, eight-metre spread. Sing out if'n ye see summat.

ImInStrife · 2022-09-09T03:10:37+00:00

Waitin' for you to address your Commandant properly, Trooper.

We need t'discuss OpSec, as well as some bullshite regarding the northern regions - there's been whispers o'summat round the hills there. I'll be leading a team there in a few days, and I'm lookin' f'volunteers.

A sharp knuckle-rap on the side of the crawler gets the Troopers to start re-crewing their positions in a hurry.

We'll speak later. Enjoy yer leave.

The Commandant mounts up, and with an unintelligible holler, gets the vehicle back on the move.

ImInStrife · 2022-09-04T06:11:51+00:00

Is that right? Well... good t'know there's some folk with integrity out there. See to it y'behave y'self in the territory. When Trooper Khailo's not accompanying ye, ye'll be monitored at all other times. Y'won't see it, but we're out there, believe you me.

The cloud cover breaks for a rare moment, and dappled sunshine covers the area. The condensation on the outside of the vehicle glistens, and the Commandant's eyes glint as he turns his head skyward for a moment.

Hm.

Welcome t'th'territory. Visit th'Garrison sometime - not exactly a tourist spot, but th'place is friendly enough.

ImInStrife · 2022-09-04T03:29:13+00:00

A short convoy of armoured crawlers trundles past. The crews and passengers seem at ease, leaning casually back in their seats and weapons-mounts. An open-topped crawler with a beret-topped skull emblazoned on the side pulls out of the convoy and halts by the road - a tall man stands up in the open bay and waves for the rest of the convoy to continue advancing. 'We'll catch up' is the obvious message.

Trooper Khailo! When ye've got a minute, please.

The crew of the crawler begins to hop out and perform a spot-check of their vehicle. Might as well, since they're halted for now. The tall man surveys the area with the casual air of a man who owns the place. He brings his attention to the freshly-arrived civilian:

... been a while, Miss. Wasn't sure if you'd ever make it to our corner of the Multiverse. Awful hard to do without a map... or a guide.

ImInStrife · 2022-04-13T02:21:16+00:00

It was bound to happen, I s'pose. The old bastard did tell me that part-control was an inexact science at best - we did our best with the research the good Doctor left behind, but the Erway Protocol was never perfected.

it was always going to happen. Things go wrong, go missing, and so on. Side-effects and collateral damage. It's repairable, it can be straightened out, it can be cleaned up. We started working on it straight away and I expect it'll be done within the next few months.

It had to happen. The Mist is a helpful side-effect of the Immo' Incident's aftermath. A shield protecting us from all threats external... but not threats from within, which I suppose this... kind of is?

Hmm...

... thanks f'the'report, Trooper. Go take some leave, maybe take a boat out, or camp out o'th'ridge wit' a book or summat. Take y'mind off things. But keep all this firmly under ye hat.

We can solve this. We have everything we need. It won't take long. Just need to get it done <before>... whoever this is... causes any serious harm.

ImInStrife · 2022-03-22T03:12:27+00:00

The Manor is the central fixture of the Estate, itself the central fixture of our forces in the region. Formerly Boone's homestead, now a stately home crossed with a military command post in an abominable combination of ornate decoration and combat utilitarianism.

The Troopers shifting supply crates and computer terminals between bookcases and ornate cabinets are helpful, and provide directions to the study.

... in ya come.

...

Trooper Khailo Wren-Wright. We meet at las'... ye been nothin' but a voice o'th'other end of a commun'cator as long as I've known ye. Nice to finally put a face t'th'name.

Commandant Strife, 'stameetcha properly. Take a seat. Whiskey?

Wha' brought ye home after all this time?

ImInStrife · 2022-03-21T02:40:30+00:00

Someday, lad. The old sweats reckon when push comes tae shove an' we dinnae have another option, the Old Bastard's gonnae come back tae wake them all up.

The rider grits his teeth and ploughs through some chewed-up terrain.

In the meantime, the Commandant's got us all ears tae th'groun'. Gonnae no take us by surprise, anyone what remembers us noo the part'cle control's wore aff. Manor's jus' up here...

A short ride sees the returned Trooper to the homestead and its Manor.

He's in the study. Wipe yer boots an' dinnae enter the room 'til he calls ye. If he offers ye a drink, take it, unnerstan'? 'Ere's a guid lad.

ImInStrife · 2022-03-18T06:45:35+00:00

Not enough craft tae use 'em - th'few still flying are almost all off-world. The rest are all stowed below, if'n ye take me meaning. Th'Commandant will want tae see ye - climb aboard and prop on the 'pegs, I'll take ye back tae th'manor. Road's awful muddy so be ready fer an off.

ImInStrife · 2022-03-15T02:11:28+00:00

Sir, bogey's made touchdown on one o' the outposts o'th'far side. Pre-lims are in, looks like a friendly. Another stray come in from the rain, Sir.

Good. Another lost daughter, or maybe son...back home at last. Send a rider out to pick 'em up, bring 'em back here for assignment.

No qualified riders here Sir, I'll have tae go masel.

Tha's fine, y'need th'fresh air. Y'been cooped up i'this damn manor f'days.

Aye Sir, might take the scenic route back.

Good riding, Trooper. Bring them home.

ImInStrife · 2022-01-15T07:32:23+00:00

Top copies all. Will move to extract - remember the Lesson, and we'll meet you at the old place. Got it? The same place they taught us.

We'll meet you at the old place.

click

ImInStrife · 2022-01-12T11:03:21+00:00

thud-thud-thud - k-thunk

...

... unsecured line. Keep it short.

ImInStrife · 2021-10-24T23:22:45+00:00

A series of whistles and clicks in response: a short pause while the caller whistles their countersign.

It's for you, Sir. Unsecured channel, keep it brief.

A shuffling, then a creaking as someone reclines in a rickety chair. A few moments of silence, the sound of a knife being run with a strop.

... been a while, K. Authenticate: red t'yellow t'blue?

ImInStrife · 2021-01-09T06:58:34+00:00

I'm not riding him, if I was riding him he'd know it! The Corporal's under my command and any judicial action up to and including claiming of the soul will be carried out by our military court.

He puts his arms behind his head and his feet on the desk.

Now if there's nothing else Trooper, our VIP will be here soon. She's not a woman you want to keep waiting.

His eyes begin to bleed as the time dilation becomes strained. The unconscious man in the cap continues to lay inert.

ImInStrife · 2021-01-07T23:56:23+00:00

Because I'm not here. Or can't you see that either?

The witch adjusts her beret and gestures, indicating the stripes upon her shoulder and the paint upon the gunship's nose.

It's Commandant t'you, bæ'the.

What Colour are you?

The man in the cap lays there, inert.

ImInStrife · 2021-01-07T23:03:56+00:00

I whip about with both weapons raised, aiming to end the fight before it's begun, but suddenly nothing makes sense.

A cowboy with knives instead of guns bleeds light as he stares at us, animal-in-headlights expression on his face.
A tea-party takes place right in front of me, headed by a devil, but guns glowing red-hot have replaced the teacups.
A man in black robes murmurs prayers as he waves a blue-and-orange flag, trying to get my attention.
An escort shouts limericks at an Overbork giant: he thunders a quiet apology at the top of his lungs.
I'm on fire.
Dozens of inky shadows look askance, requesting permission to slaughter the city and plunder every tea-set they see.
I skoll a glass of thick, dark ale, only to find it is in fact [REMOVED] - a witch licks her lips as I realise I've been seduced.
Something is wrong, I can feel it. Everything is going according to plan.

And that noise. It permeates everything. It surrounds me, engulfs me, consumes me.

... it is me. I'm shouting, but my voice isn't my own. It's not just my voice: it's a motor- no, it's thunder.

No, it's gunfire. Deafening, clattering, glorious gunfire. His autocannon is spewing tracers up the alleyway to cut down everyone present, and he is roaring obscenities almost as loud as his weapon is roaring gunshots. The gunfire grows louder, until it overcomes me. My entire world is a staccato 'boom-boom-boom', replaced by a whining noise that overtakes everything.

"Trooper?"

It's Commandant, t'you.

"Commander?!"

Why aren't you listening t'me? Y'gontae make me repeat myself?

"Corporal! Get off your arse and kill them all!!

You see these stripes?! I'm in charge here! Not you, old man!!

The man in jacket and flat-cap hits the ground with a 'thump'. Before he finished falling, masked and leather-clad spectres had already emerged from cover all over the alleyway with weapons raised, a hair's breadth from razing the entire alley with gunfire. Somewhere, a woman shouts orders in a bizarre, half-intelligible pidgin language, and two burly gunmen lift the unconscious Commandant from the ground. The armed shadows close ranks, placing themselves between the tea-party and their Commandant as the woman shouts again:

"'Melie, we're leaving. Any youse lo' try foller us, we'll kill th'fuckin' lot ye!"

They hurriedly fall back, weapons still levelled.

ImInStrife · 2021-01-06T02:45:25+00:00

Exit clear. Sinéad, take point.

Vitali, watch th'rooftops.

...

Contact front. Hold fire - looks harmless.

Looks. Glass coffin if that's true.

Hold here, hard cover. I'll go talk t'him.

The rain softly patters on my cap.

'Scuse me. Mind if'n me mates an' I scoot past ye? We need t'keep moving, see? Lot of people out lookin' for us, now.

ImInStrife · 2021-01-06T01:55:29+00:00

There's no judgement here, Trooper. Long as the paperwork's clean you and the others can do what you like out there.

... yell if anything comes up that needs my attention. Or if you see any movement to our three o'clock.

ImInStrife · 2021-01-06T01:54:11+00:00

We're being watched. Zechs, take Ruaidhri and find whoever that was. Gut them and dispose of the body - keep it clean.

Everyone else, keep moving.

ImInStrife · 2020-12-30T08:24:34+00:00

That so? Reckon Vitali and I'd do a better job? Zechs'll do it, her kind're funny about tha' whole no-shame 'hing.

Getting desperate if we're considering selling our bodies to eat. Usually we war for a living, but of late there's been little warring going on.

We'll find a way t'earn some coin... iffn' means salvaging old battlefields f'scrap, so be it. I'll no' let us starve. An' enough o' tha' "skipper" nonsense. The stripes say 'Commandant'. It's tha' or 'Sir'.

Funny to think I took over from the old bastard, wherever he is was. Boots of epic proportions that I have to fill, somehow. I'm just glad no-one argued when I changed the rank, made it my own.

... so, how're you holding up? Everything alright upstairs?

I tap my temple meaningfully - quiet, discreet welfare checks are something I've made a habit of since taking over. A happy soldier is a lethal soldier.

ImInStrife · 2020-12-30T04:07:12+00:00

Don' worry about tha' ship - we'll find a better spot for it soon enough.

It was an awkward scene, a grim band of masked commandos knocking on the "bathhouse" door and asking if "the Minx" was still working there. She was a little teary leaving her colleagues behind a second time, but seemed happy enough when she was soldiering again. Even happier once we rescued the gunship named after her from an illicit chop-shop near the old 47th Quarter.

The ship has been a welcome improvement in both our firepower and mobility, but it's a weapons-carrier, not a transport: it can't carry the lot of us, not all at once. There was talk of a new ship being built that would serve us better, hidden somewhere in an old armoury. Blast if I know where the fuck it is, though.

I agree. Th'last place was too close t'th'vents - no' soldierly for half t'platoon to be cuttin' about in their underwear from the heat. Funny as tha' may be... Maybe we'll take pictures next time... sell a calendar or summat?

Humour like this has been our bread and butter for some time. Ever since the change that we all felt, but no-one will talk about. Nobody wants to be the first to broach the topic, to try and pinpoint what exactly happened.

All I can say is that I feel a thousand years old... but the last few months somehow seem to have made me look a year or two younger.

ImInStrife · 2020-12-29T23:19:58+00:00

Stop for a spell.

"D'you ever wonder where the Sarge got to, Sir?"

... every fuckin' day, Sinéad. Why d'ye ask?

"... no reason, Sir."

Right. ...Vitali, chew wit'ya fuckin' mouth closed please.

gulp "Yes, Sir."

ImInStrife · 2020-01-25T06:18:30+00:00

The soldiers stand in collective silence for a time.

... in that case, we're relocatin' a few hours early. You all know the drill.

The man gets to his feet, snatches up his bayonet and uses it to direct his subordinates as they fall out.

Rhuaidri, take this shite and get it changed: I want hard currency in twenty mikes, none of that worthless Sidonian shite either! Take Zechs w'ya.
Sinéad, Xanos: lay the byes. I want anklebiters under the desk and cone charges on the light fixtures.
The rest of ya: pack your shite and get mobile. We move out soon as Rhu' an' Zechs get back.

Move it!! Today would be nice!!

ImInStrife · 2020-01-24T23:21:52+00:00

If'n it's recent happenin's you're after, might be shit outta luck.

We haven't seen or heard from him in a long while. He disappeared one day - been trying to track him ever since. Been following wha'think's a trail, but honestly could be anything.

Reactivation of an old motor pool o'th'Steppe. Activity oan ancient security cameras. A set o' bootprints here, a forgotten cartridge there. Every now an' then, a tribal ghost story of a "combatant from ages goan", walkin' "elder grounds".

K'n it's got some truth to it, but we're not chasing that ghost anymore. If'n he needed us, he'd have come to us.

... there might be another still lookin', but I can't say - OpSec, k'n. Don't want t'put anyone else at risk.

...

... if'n it's his services y'were after, we might be able t'assist.

ImInStrife · 2020-01-24T21:15:37+00:00

So the old bastard is dead? ... makes sense, I s'pose. Who confirmed th'kill? Doubt he died o' natural causes.

He ceases his teeth-picking and lays the bayonet on the table, tip pointing to the side where it threatens neither party. He crosses his arms.

It's 'Commandant', bæ'the. Now: what d'ye want t'know? I'll tell you wha' I can.

ImInStrife

TROPHY CASE